Lindsey Kelk ponders the mother of all backhanded compliments

A few days ago, Cindy Crawford, one of the first supers, turned fifty and celebrated in the most modern way ? by posting a selfie on Instagram. As anyone with eyes will tell you, Cindy was, is and always will be one of the most beautiful women in the world and yet, within minutes of the posting the pic, it was met with online comments, blog posts and news articles all declaring how great Cindy looked ?for her age?. Some argued as to whether she was wearing make up or not, others debated possible work she?d had done but they all agreed on one thing ? for fifty, she was wearing pretty well.
But what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean"
A few weeks before Cindy, fuelled by great lighting, a good hair day and half a bottle of rosé, I posted a Saturday night selfie and was met with similar comments. Of course, I am not now, nor ever have I been, a supermodel, I?m a 35 year-old writer who loathes the camera and has consistently ducked out of any and all opportunities to have my picture taken. with such commitment that my headshot was taken in my publisher?s office only after they lured me there with the promise of cocktails and a free lunch. In this post-Kardashian world we all live in, even authors are expected to live online, post the odd selfie and support ?the brand? and so I was pretty pleased with my pic, but as soon the comments came rolling in and wiped the smile and copious contouring right off my...