Age Is The Weirdest Insult
By: Shani Silver
Tags: Age, Self, Advice, Culture, Women

A cucumber calling a pickle green.

Photo by Ben Neale on Unsplash

Age is weird. I have a theory it’s just one more thing we’ve been trained to care about so that we’ll spend money, either in celebration or in fear. Capitalism is very good at taking normal things that happen to everybody and turning them into reasons to either party or panic. Age is the perfect example of this structure on a continuum, and I write this for those of us in the space where the dial points to freaking out. There’s a change that happens, an uncomfortable switcheroo, when you move into a world where when people ask your age, it’s always followed by, “if you don’t mind me asking.” Why, bitch, would I mind?

We’ve been trained to “mind.” Trained to feel shame for the number of birthdays we’ve had, as if having fewer was an option. The balm against that shame is of course to “look” younger than whatever the person in front of you thinks your actual age should manifest as visually. We’ve been trained to use our outward appearance to defend our actual age, lest we become the subject of an awkward moment where someone doesn’t want to be overtly insulting by acknowledging that we look like the age we literally are. “Don’t worry, it’s fine that I’m 40, I look 31!” Whew, that was a close one, didn’t want to make someone uncomfortable, least of all me, the person who was just asked her age, a trait she’s been societally groomed to be ashamed of. We absorb the shame, and comfort the outside world, by trying to trick all parties involved. I am far more interested in the truth. It’s cheaper.

The insulting moments that surround age aren’t always person-to-person. (Thanksgiving dinner table notwithstanding.) The cues are more subtle, more passive, and they train us to accept that after a certain age, we are over. Not once or twice, but over decades. We absorb it like the porous little sponges we are. Remember to hide your pores, ladies, they’re unsightly. Who appears in the ads fed to us, who do marketers cast to be their “face?” Look a the stories we tell, the movies and television, the individuals we hold up and shine light on. Look at how we present women deemed a desirable focal point, versus how we present stories about women over a certain age and therefore have to make the story itself about her “certain” age.

I wont bore you with a deep dive into the beauty industry’s swindling of the female population as a collective into thinking age is a thing you can some how preserve or reverse, you can probably take a spin around your own medicine cabinets for that—I can certainly look in mine. What I’d rather talk about is shame. The assignation of shame to the most natural, passive thing we do: getting older. It’s these insults, both direct and passive, that impose that shame, and that imposition is absolutely baffling to me, because…you know, biology.

The shame itself comes from a permeating preference for youth, as if youth are prepared enough to know what to do with all that preference. After we pass the point of preference, we’re communicated to and observed as something less, something unwanted, something that is no longer worthy of the caveat-free attention, affection, and focus given to the young. There’s an invisibility to aging that feels particularly cold. We shouldn’t have to demand acknowledgment or attention, or justify the fact that we still exist. Those same societally bestowed feelings should just show up the way they did in our twenties, when we were just accepted as preferred. But for those of us past the preference point, our own age, rather suddenly, not only becomes something we have to justify, but also becomes something we can be insulted for. How…and I can’t stress this enough…the fuck?

If we’re going to make age something for women to worry about, can we at least build our case on solid arguments? We don’t. We built it on the weirdest things possible, when you really think about it. We use the most senseless foundations to squeeze a square life into a round hole, and then we remark at the discomfort we feel in constantly trying to fit. I take three main issues with the logic applied:

The window is tiny. The time in between “too young” and “too old” is quite narrow, when you get down to brass tacks and marketing slideshow presentations. It’s basically between the ages of legal adult and 29. Eleven years. You have eleven years where the world won’t give you shit about how old you are, but on the whole you’re gonna live for about 49 more years after that. So we get to spend 18 years wishing we were older, 11 years not giving our age a second thought because the world is showering us with acceptance and preference, and 49 more trying to preserve and tuck and reformat ourselves into an age that’s less than what we actually are. I’m sorry but that’s far too much of my life to spend fighting nature, who as we know, always wins. We are not rare flowers who only bloom for 20 minutes on the second equinox of a leap year, our beauteous petals unfolding for but a moment. We are the constant, the vines, the wisteria dripping from a house whose market value has increased as a result. If I have to live a human earth life for roughly 80 years you bet your ass I’m going to feel like a valid member of society for far more than fucking 11 of them. Like we have a choice? I love it when age is communicated to women like it’s our fault. Like we’ve somehow done something wrong by not dying at the stroke of midnight on our 30th birthday, sparing the world the inevitability of our decay. We know we’re an imposition, we’ll just leave. My age is not an accident, I’m not going to apologize for it like I’ve spilled a coffee. It’s a thing that I do not control and not for nothing, do not mind. There’s nothing weirder than being insulted for something you yourself don’t see as a flaw. “Ew, gross, you’re…your age.” Yes I am, Stacy, thank you for demonstrating your grasp of the very basic facts at hand. By the way, that sour face you’re making will give you wrinkles, which brings me to my last point… It’s coming for you, too. The only other option is death, so absent an early exit, all the fears and disgust and dread assigned to getting older, whatever “older” happens to mean to each individual, it’s all coming for you, baby. So why not just get rid of the fear and disgust and dread instead? “Ugh, look at that old person, I’m so glad I’m not that old person.” Dude, yet. Maybe if we improved our opinions and feelings around age, we’d both make ourselves less afraid to age, and improve the societal messaging those who don’t have a “2” in front of their age receive. You know, two birds.

I think we should stop trying to fit into a world that celebrates youth no matter what age we happen to be (via creams potions and wardrobes and mortgages and behavior deemed appropriate), and start trying to build a world that celebrates and values every age for the inherent value in each age that exists, and in the fact that there’s no actual prescribed “way to be” regardless of the number of times we’ve been around the sun. Basically, I think we can all do whatever the fuck we want.

In my world, “you look good for your age” becomes “you look good.” “You look so young” isn’t uttered, because it isn’t seen as the ultimate praise any longer. “You look old” said in a negative tone merits you a kick in the teeth. We stop the valuation of human beings by how much they resemble a version of themselves that only existed for a decade or so, and start celebrating all of their decades as being a collection of valuable, celebratable life experiences. You think you know how to celebrate a birthday? Pshhttt….you’ve only had 22 of them. That’s not nearly enough practice.

I think at least part of the way we get to a world where no one feels societally shamed by their age is by acknowledging for ourselves that our own ages are not only valid, but good. And I’m not going to list all the good things we acquire with age, I’m not going to defend something we are as if it needs defending. Accept it or not, age is true. You can waste time and energy trying to beat it if you want, but I’d rather do something that has a point. I think if we can silence the illogical, weird insults of a culture that only thinks you’re likable or attractive when you’re 25, and stop defending ourselves for the crime of living past that age, we might be able to affect some real change.

Have you ever caught yourself defending your own youthfulness to someone? Or at least defending it to them in your head while you’re in the shower? Have you ever felt the need to stand up for yourself when the only topic on the table is your age? I bet you have. If you’ve ever responded, “how old do you think I am?” you have. That’s a defense. A real answer is…42. That’s it. No further window dressing of the response required in order to put all parties present at ease even though they’re the ones who asked the fucking question. No comforting response complimenting your appearance is necessary from them either. This dance can end, the strange tango between how old you are and how old people think you are and how old people think you’re allowed to be before you diminish in value.

It’ll feel weird at first, encouraging this change down it’s wobbly baby bird path, but we’ll get there. Here’s a quick reference, if you feel yourself confused or shy about refuting any shame the world is trying to impose upon you just because you’ve existed for three decades or more:

You don’t have to let someone else make you feel worse about your age while at THE SAME TIME trying to make THEM feel better about your age. You’re 47, and they’re a dick. There’s a difference.

Don’t make them feel better by trying to appear younger or reiterating how young you feel, force them to make you feel right on time. Because you are, because there’s literally no other way you can be. We can’t go back, we can’t skip ahead, so why do we assign shameful traits to something that has only one way to exist? Like we don’t have enough other shit to worry about? In this economy?

Your age isn’t happening to anyone else. Your age is also a natural thing that’s happening. Those are two logical sentences in a row. They have nothing to do with fear-monger marketing or the corporate drive to acquire 50-year lifelong customers by telling them their gray hair is ugly so you’d better buy our hair dye. The logical qualities of age far outweigh the illogical ideas of why we should feel bad about it. And maybe I’m finally old enough to know the difference.

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Shani Silver is a humor essayist and podcaster based in Brooklyn who writes on Medium, frequently.