Elderhostile

Take That, Young Whippersnappers

At the table of human experience, old age is the guest no one wants to sit anywhere near. Rather than just politely passing it the mashed potatoes, we ignore it and hope it will leave us alone. But it gradually creeps up, and before long, we realize we have met the enemy, and it is us.

Aesthetically, aging is a bummer. Inside and out, things fall apart. To those who claim wrinkles are signifiers of a life well-lived, I say wrong. Wrinkles are signifiers of skin laxity and gravity. Personally, I would like to be sanguine about getting old, but arthritis and age spots are small victories for mortality, whose endgame has never been beaten.

Wow, I just depressed myself, and that is so not the point of this.

We can’t hold back the hands of time, but today I find myself thinking about the likes of Frances McDormand, Joe Biden, and Gloria Steinem. They continue to achieve greatness long past their spring chickenhood because they are seen (and see themselves) as relevant. You won’t catch them griping to their friend about how they can no longer tell where their butt ends and their upper thigh begins, or resenting the saleswoman at J. Crew whose gaze drifts over them to settle instead on a teen shopping for a hair scrunchie, circling back only when three cashmere sweaters and a Mastercard are involved.

Not that I would know anything about either of these situations.

Anyway, ageist whippersnappers, this is for you. I understand that no one gets out of here alive, and seeing me reminds you that you’re no exception. But I’ve decided to quit moping and join the ranks of the up-in-years upstarts who are purposeful and getting shit done. You see, the table of human experience has room for all of us, and I’m still pretty hungry. Besides, these cashmere sweaters aren’t going to wear themselves.