Martha Stewart, Please Sit Down
There comes a time in every icon’s life when she ought to pause, take stock, and ask the big question: Have I become too fabulous for my own good? For Martha Stewart, America’s premier domestic deity turned Instagram thirst trap, that moment should have arrived somewhere between the CBD endorsement and the Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot. Alas, it did not.
And so, with all due respect to her legacy of high-thread-count linens and ethically sourced egg tempera, we must ask Martha—politely, reverently, perhaps while wearing cashmere—to begin acting her goddamn age.
This is not a call to dim her light; it’s a plea to turn it down to a warm 40-watt glow. Think Parisian café at twilight, not heliport landing beacon.
When Martha, 83, America’s first self-made female billionaire, flaunts legs that defy not just age but the laws of physics, she sends a confusing message to generations of women who were promised the dignity of floral blouses and early dinners. One cannot gracefully “age out” of society if Martha refuses to set the precedent.
Her refusal to slow down has had dire consequences. Millennials are spiraling. Gen Z has stopped moisturizing. Boomers are split between awe and orthopedic envy. Meanwhile, the peacocks (yes, she has them) are reportedly unionizing for better lighting and more camera time.
Martha is not just breaking molds—she’s smashing them and using the shards to decorate a bespoke charcuterie board. That’s the problem. It’s hard to embrace invisibility when your role model, who claims to need only for hours sleep a night, is doing back flips in Balmain.
And let’s not forget her curious and suspect alliance with Snoop Dogg—a friendship forged in television studios and sealed in the slow-cooked glaze of cultural rebranding. When your most publicized dalliance in your seventies involves a rap legend and a line of THC gummies, one wonders if the term “acting your age” even applies anymore, or if it should be quietly retired to the doily-lined hope chest of generational modesty.
Of course, some will argue this is ageism cloaked in humor; but it’s not about age, it’s about aspiration fatigue. It’s about the rest of us quietly trying to become elder goths or to move to Vermont to pickle things in peace, while Martha’s out here starting a new skincare line made from unicorn collagen.
So, Martha, for the sake of our collective self-esteem and the natural order of generational decline: consider skipping a photo shoot. Maybe knit something that doesn’t end up on a runway. Let the peacocks have the spotlight for once. Until then, the rest of us will keep aging out of relevance like nature intended—with a glass of boxed wine, our clothes on, and our dignity intact.