How Old Am I? NOT

I recently celebrated a birthday.  Yes, I say “celebrated” because previously it was more like lamented, ignored, cried, went postal or just lied.  Sometimes ALL of them simultaneously.  Whatever it was, I  didn’t  want anyone reminding me that the last time someone referred to me as a “girl” was sometime during the Clinton administration or the fact that whatever year I had reached was better than the alternative. Something I never thought of as a comfort, but more of a further reminder that I was one birthday closer to that “alternative”.  I don’t understand why this expression is only used for birthdays.   Why can’t we use it for everything?   i.e. Your friend complains, “ My kid’s a real pain!”- You respond, “Better than the alternative! “  (This doesn’t work when referring to spouses, because generally whatever the alternative is, it’s usually an improvement)

This year, my special day coincided with President’s day and I, therefore, found this rather symbolically poignant.  I was as ageless and evergreen as Abraham and George.  From here on, I would focus on the occasion and not the amount of years I was past my expiration date.  Honestly, does anyone actually ask how OLD our presidents are? No, we just regale in our furniture sales pitched by bad actors in horrendous wigs who are either chopping down cherry trees for mahogany dressers or freeing the slaves of retail from undiscounted merchandise. I was intent on freeing myself from self-hating ageism, the AARP mailing list and my obsession over my age-appropriate proximity to “Cemetery (umm) CENTURY Village” retirement communities.  I would no longer be “Old at heart”, but neither would I cement my cougar reputation by dating men who never owned a landline nor remember when the “New Kids on the Block” were actual children.  

Although I tried to avoid the “age” issue it continued to stalk me like a telemarketer at six pm.  In my arthritic opinion,  “OLD” should have definitely remained a four letter word-( It WAS “Olde”, but shortened by lazy middle aged people (20-year olds)  in the late nineteenth century who were trying to de-stigmatize it)  If someone smelled it was my birthday, they immediately asked “How Old ARE you?” to which I replied the following:

1.        “WHO raised you?! Didn’t your mom teach you to never ask a woman her age”? (useful for both Sexes.

2.        “How much money do you make”? (Perfect for males who have the chutzpah to ask you such a personal question.)

3.       “Guess”!-(Because they usually embarrass themselves by pausing and trying to subtract a couple of years from what they really think)

And when I tell them my “real” age (I have a few of those) and they respond “Oh my G-d, you look great FOR YOUR AGE, I wonder what you looked like at 18!”  I, then, retort.

1.       “You remind me of my grandmother who would remark “I love the dress you’re wearing.  It’s MUCH nicer than the one you wore yesterday”.

2.       “I actually look much better NOW”. And then proceed to take out a young, dorky picture of me with short hair and glasses

3.       “Average Parents, Great Genetics.”  So good, in fact, that my parents are now younger than I am.

Recently people who I had not seen for a while commented on my youthful appearance.  They asked me what my “secret” was. (that’s how you know you are REALLY OLD). I told them I was a vegan, became a blonde and most of all don’t hold grudges.  The reason is pure vanity, because before age 35, you have the face you were born with, but after 35, you have the face you deserve.  It's the unfiltered, unbotoxed truth.

AND I’m still not telling you how old I am.