‘Look, don’t worry about finding a partner. I’m 38 and I just found my person! You’re still so young!’ It’s two years ago and I’m consoling a girl at a house party, after far too many shots of a blue fluorescent liquid I’m pretty sure is radioactive. She looks at me, startled.
‘You’re 38?!’. Her face changes – she is no longer looking for sympathy. Instead, she’s in awe, tucking invisible hair behind her ear as she exclaims ‘Girl, I need your skincare routine !’ I used to love that reaction.
After hitting my 30s, I would regularly tell people my age, waiting for the wide eyed gasp, as my small face and casual clothes confused people – always following up with the joke that I dress like a teenage boy for this very reason. I would walk into bars, pretending to act shocked that the doormen wanted to see ID . ‘Little old me?’ I would gasp while rummaging for my driver’s licence.
I paused to take in their reactions: An incredulous ‘No way!’, or a joking ‘This is fake!’ Smiling, I would take back my ID and walk in – where, in my mind, the music stopped, a limelight hit me, people stared and then everything went back to normal. But as I started approaching 40, I realised that, while people thought they were complimenting me, they were actually insulting all other women. By saying my features don’t match with your idea of ‘40’, you are suggesting that other women, who do ‘look 40’ are ageing in a way that conforms to ageist be.