She takes lying about her age to the extreme. Several years ago, when she was the only survivor of an automobile accident, she had the presence of mind to fabricate her age to the emergency medical technicians as they wheeled her into the ambulance. She was nearly arrested by U.S. Immigration officers because she crossed off and changed her birth date on her passport. For her, tampering with official documents is a way of life; she recently made me promise not to put her true age in her obituary.
I, on the other hand, had never lied about my age. I was proud, in fact, even when I turned 50. Why should I lie? I was told I looked good, and I felt great. My kids were grown, my marriage was fine and I had a great job. I loved it when people said, “Your kids are that old? I can’t believe it!” I thought that people who wouldn’t reveal their age suffered from low self-esteem. That is, until my boss, the new, thirtysomething school headmaster, found out how old I was.
I taught part time and did fund-raising for a small private school. I was the second oldest person on the faculty. I never imagined that it could matter until the morning I met with the headmaster in his office. We chatted about the school, the students and me. “How old are you?” he asked. When I answered 50, he seemed to stop breathing. He definitely stopped talking. There was a long, strange silence.
“Why are you asking?” I said.
“Never mind,” he answered.
I should have lied.
I was angry that my boss had asked that question, but I didn’t want to rock the boat, so I let it pass.
Several weeks later the headmaster informed me that the school was having financial difficulties. They “just couldn’t afford me,” he said. I was let go.
Sure, there were age-discrimination laws 10 years ago, but I had no proof that age was the reason I was fired. I just took it on the chin, telling myself this guy was a jerk, I’d have more time for my writing and, anyhow, I must look pretty good if he was so shocked that I was 50.
My friend PJ, a book editor, never cared about who knew her age–until recently. “I don’t look my age, but that doesn’t matter anymore,” she told me. “When younger people know I’m in my mid-50s, they treat me differently. They realize I’m their parents’ age.”
Another friend, a mother of three, lies about her age or avoids the subject. When her husband left her for a younger woman, she had a tummy tuck and a face-lift. She’s dating, but it’s hard to find a man interested in a 45-year-old woman. She says she’ll tell her age if she finds someone she wants to settle down with. In the meantime, she’s keeping it a secret.
After I lost my job, I decided to keep quiet, too. I even requested that my date of birth be dropped from the Library of Congress data on the copyright page of my books.
Then last month I accepted an invitation to have lunch with a New York book editor. We had had several phone conversations but never met in person. I knew she was under 30, but of course I had never told her how old I am.
I worried, even obsessed, about how she would react when she saw me. But when we finally met, I detected no disappointment. In fact, we had fun, chatting and laughing like a couple of teenagers. After a while, I told her my age and asked her how she viewed women over 50.
Her answer surprised me. She confided that women over 50 made her nervous because she was afraid that they would perceive her as young. And to her, being young meant being naive and prone to errors. She viewed older women as worldly, seasoned, deserving of respect. Although I envied her age, she seemed to envy mine.
Since that lunch, I’ve felt a lot better about my age. Sure, there are things about getting older that aren’t terrific, like memory lapses and sagging skin, but in many ways, being mature is an advantage.
Not everyone agrees, so I still avoid the subject. But the next time I’m nervous or self-conscious about telling a younger person my age, I’ll try to remember that she may be questioning how she will measure up to me.
