My next door neighbor is 92 and it comes up in conversation with her. This statement, “I’m 92 and … ” (there is a wide variety of topics with which she fills in the blank), got me thinking about age.
Recently I goofed at work. Being the editor of our internal monthly newsletter, I publish the birthdays each issue … without the year. In March, I forgot to take off the year. I’ve been doing the newsletter for decades and get very little feedback. Boy, did I hear from the March birthdays! Some of them were NOT happy about their ages being revealed. That also got me thinking about age.
In January, I volunteered to spend an afternoon with a Girl Scout Troupe. One of the scouts was turning 10. It was a big deal … double digits. She was proudly sharing her age.
So I wonder … when is it that some of us become secretive about our age? We proudly announce we are 10 and 92 … but somewhere in the middle some people become sensitive to aging.
How old are you and why would you share (or not) that number?
I think it is an East versus West thing. There seems to be this shame to aging in the West – like somehow our bodies have failed us. Eastern cultures have historically respected the elders – the older you are the wiser. Also culturally in the East asking someone how old they are is an accepted practice. Not so here. I for one have never understood wanting to be older when we are young, and pretending to be younger as we age. I do not lie about my age – every year is hard earned.