Men take much more notice of older women in France, so I might

In the words of Deborah Moggach, we hear a confession both playful and profound: “Men take much more notice of older women in France, so I might move there. I think I’m a good bet.” At first glance, it seems but a jest, a witty remark upon the customs of nations. Yet beneath it lies a truth that has long weighed upon women’s hearts—the yearning to be seen not only in youth’s fleeting spring but also in the autumn of life, when wisdom ripens and the soul deepens. Here is not mere laughter, but a cry against invisibility, against the world’s tendency to honor only the blossom while neglecting the fruit.

In this saying, we discern a contrast between cultures: in some lands, age is a burden, in others, it is a crown. In France, or so Moggach tells us, older women are not dismissed as shadows but are regarded with reverence, charm, and desire. Their stories, etched in their faces, become ornaments rather than blemishes. Their laughter carries depth, their presence weight. To be an “older woman” in such a place is not to fade, but to bloom anew. The remark is humorous, yet like the words of the ancients, it carries a spearhead of wisdom hidden beneath the cloak of wit.

Let us remember the tale of Aspasia of Miletus, the beloved companion of Pericles. Though she lived beyond the flower of her youth, she captivated philosophers, generals, and statesmen not merely by her beauty but by her intellect and grace. In Athens she was not invisible; she was sought for counsel, for discourse, for the brilliance of her mind. Thus, even in antiquity, the lesson rings clear: age, when adorned with wisdom, is no diminishment, but an increase in worth.

The quote also reveals a subtle defiance: “I think I’m a good bet.” Hear in this the voice of one who knows her value, who refuses to bow to the tyranny of youth’s monopoly. She speaks as if wagering with fate itself, daring society to underestimate her. This is the heroic spirit—the flame that refuses to die even when the world grows cold. To proclaim oneself a “good bet” is to declare faith in one’s own worth, to resist the erosion of confidence that age or judgment seeks to impose.

Yet how often do men and women alike forget this? How often do they shrink from their own light when years gather upon them? It is a tragedy not of flesh but of spirit, when one allows the mirror to dictate the measure of their soul. For the true measure is not in smooth skin or unlined brows, but in the richness of heart, the wisdom of years, the power to inspire and comfort. The French, perhaps, have merely remembered what others have forgotten—that dignity, experience, and allure may walk hand in hand, even into twilight.

From this saying of Moggach, let us draw a lesson: cherish the seasons of life, for each brings forth its own fruit. Do not scorn the autumn for the loss of spring, for in autumn we gather the harvest. Seek not always the applause of the young and fickle world; instead, honor the worth that time has woven into you. And if the place where you dwell blinds itself to your light, then, like Moggach, dare to “move there”—seek out the spaces, the friendships, the cultures that see you rightly.

So I say to you: walk with confidence, whether in youth’s dawn or in age’s dusk. Speak as though your words were gold, for they are minted from the coin of experience. Laugh without shame, love without fear, and never believe yourself invisible. The world needs your presence at every stage of life. To practice this, cultivate circles that value depth over novelty, seek companions who see your spirit, and nurture your own soul so its flame does not flicker.

For in the end, whether in France or in any land, the truth remains eternal: those who honor themselves, who know their worth, shall always be noticed. And indeed, like Deborah Moggach, they shall prove to be a very good bet.