Telling Ages
One should never trust a woman who tells her real age. If she tells that, she'll tell anything.
--Oscar Wilde
Once upon a time I knew a woman who lied about her age. She said that she was “almost thirty” when in fact she was a decade older. I always kind of wondered how she got away with it. I certainly never guessed until someone told me about it, and her other lies had begun to catch up with her.
Now I have a birthday coming up this week, the once that will push me over the edge from mid- to late-thirties. I can see 40 on the horizon, but it looks like a pretty benign signpost from here. I’m married now, and have a baby, which makes it easier to look at the future without anxiety. If I were still alone, I think 40 would look pretty lonely, but I like to think I wouldn’t get too wound up about it.
What I can see, now, is how easy it would be to just drop a decade and turn 28 this week. My old acquaintance looked a little weather-beaten for a 29-year-old, but she had none of the material trappings of adulthood except an unreliable pick-up truck. Like her, I don’t own a house or have a serious, respectable career. Heck, I don’t even have a car. I could pass for someone in my 20s, particularly since everyone I hang out with these days is so much younger than I am.
But of course I won’t. I can’t be bothered, and lying is not a particular skill of mine (to put it mildly). I already have enough to re-invent myself around with new motherhood and shifting between continents. I could do it, though, and my old acquaintance’s revision of her own history no longer looks like the daring feat it seemed back then.
All it would take would be a little re-figuring of dates, a short rehearsal, and a knack for avoiding the probing questions that hardly anyone ever asks. Then I realize another problem. I don’t want to be 28. I was fairly miserable at that age. Youth is not all it’s cracked up to be. I might have had a bit more physical resilience then, but emotionally I just didn’t have it together. I find that I’ve gotten steadily happier as I’ve gotten older. I wouldn't trade that for looking like a weathered 28-year-old.
--Oscar Wilde
Once upon a time I knew a woman who lied about her age. She said that she was “almost thirty” when in fact she was a decade older. I always kind of wondered how she got away with it. I certainly never guessed until someone told me about it, and her other lies had begun to catch up with her.
Now I have a birthday coming up this week, the once that will push me over the edge from mid- to late-thirties. I can see 40 on the horizon, but it looks like a pretty benign signpost from here. I’m married now, and have a baby, which makes it easier to look at the future without anxiety. If I were still alone, I think 40 would look pretty lonely, but I like to think I wouldn’t get too wound up about it.
What I can see, now, is how easy it would be to just drop a decade and turn 28 this week. My old acquaintance looked a little weather-beaten for a 29-year-old, but she had none of the material trappings of adulthood except an unreliable pick-up truck. Like her, I don’t own a house or have a serious, respectable career. Heck, I don’t even have a car. I could pass for someone in my 20s, particularly since everyone I hang out with these days is so much younger than I am.
But of course I won’t. I can’t be bothered, and lying is not a particular skill of mine (to put it mildly). I already have enough to re-invent myself around with new motherhood and shifting between continents. I could do it, though, and my old acquaintance’s revision of her own history no longer looks like the daring feat it seemed back then.
All it would take would be a little re-figuring of dates, a short rehearsal, and a knack for avoiding the probing questions that hardly anyone ever asks. Then I realize another problem. I don’t want to be 28. I was fairly miserable at that age. Youth is not all it’s cracked up to be. I might have had a bit more physical resilience then, but emotionally I just didn’t have it together. I find that I’ve gotten steadily happier as I’ve gotten older. I wouldn't trade that for looking like a weathered 28-year-old.
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