I’m going to be 30 years old next year. Just publicizing that fact feels awkward. I grew up hearing that it’s rude to ask a woman her age and learning that one of the most kind compliments one can receive has to do with a youthful appearance.
There is a global obsession with youth, and age seems to be the constant footnote as each year passes by. I’ve never lied about my age, but I did choose not to share it at times because it just became one of those things that you do without much thought or question: like changing your last name after marriage. No one has a legitimate argument why a woman must take her husband’s last name other than it’s just something that you should do to solidify the union. In the same exact way, we look at age as a yardstick to measure goal accomplishment, instead of just focusing on the accomplishments or milestones achieved.
Two weeks ago, a cashier asked for my ID in the supermarket. I was purchasing a bottle of white wine to make mushroom risotto. I found so much pleasure in showing her my ID. I would be lying if I said my ego wasn’t majorly stroked. It made me think that perhaps I don’t care so much about sharing my age with friends and family because I sit on the pro side of society’s popular age- related desirability. However, one day I will no longer belong to this “favoured” youthful clique. Just as how I adored the compliments the absence of them could result in misery.
