What disgusts you? I hope it’s not inexpertly summarised research, because I have been intrigued by the recently reported finding that men get more disgusted as they age. Researchers at the Institute for Environmental Decisions in Zurich found that while young women generally “experience more disgust than men”, later in life the difference between the sexes narrows, and “men and women will reach similar levels of disgust when they get older”.
I don’t think anyone who has encountered young men’s bedrooms either in person or through the @boyroom social media account (a festival of coverless, unwashed duvets, defrosted bags of Ikea meatballs left to fester and stockpiled used tissues) will be surprised to learn that male disgust doesn’t kick in early. However, the theory is that as physical vulnerability increases with age, it makes survival sense for men to become warier of potential contaminants. For women, disgust stays stable – high in their fertile years (perhaps an evolutionary safeguard for potential pregnancies) and high post-menopause too, as they become more susceptible to disease.
This disgust convergence between the sexes in later life could facilitate domestic harmony in straight couples – a closer consensus on sheet-changing and loo-cleaning frequency, and shared attitudes to hair-clogged plugholes, overflowing bins and whether mould on jam is a deal breaker will surely lead to fewer arguments – unless you’re me and my husband. Because he is already moderately fastidious, while not much disgusts me except mayonnaise.
I’m so un-squeamish that, evolutionarily speaking, it’s a wonder I have survived so long – while I don’t actively enjoy dealing with vomit, excrement, hens with prolapses, dead mice or furry fridge oozings, they leave me utterly unbothered. I would argue that is a useful quality in a life partner, but it does mean that my approach to hygiene is best described as “robust”: from March to October, my nails are permanently French-tipped with garden muck, my salad washing is so cursory that slugs sometimes end up wandering across my plate, and I found chicken poo on my leg earlier today and was neither surprised nor grossed out. So what if my husband’s age-related increased disgust leaves him disgusted – by me?
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
