“How old do you think I am?”
My husband likes to play this seemingly sadistic game when we’re out: Approaching random strangers after a couple of drinks and asking them, rather earnestly, how old they think he is.
Why? Self-abuse? Narcissistic tendencies? No.
He simply cannot see age. Or so he claims. Yet, despite these newfound gregarious acquaintances who accurately guess his age - no congratulatory self flattery there - he still endearingly clings onto the absurd notion that “young souls can’t define age.”
It’s cute. But quickly turns obscene when he turns the attention onto me and asks - now guess how old SHE IS! Wait! Whaaaaaa? How did I factor in this twisted debacle!
Naturally, I try to deflect the conversation with maniacal laughter, a seizure, or deftly ducking behind a stranger; and when that fails (which it usually does), I brace myself, thankful for the dim lighting and general intoxicated state of the audience. They usually lie and say 35. Which is kind. Yet stupid. But I accept it with false nonchalance, breathing an internal sigh of relief, never disclosing my true age in response. Now why is that?
As someone who authors a newsletter titled “Middle Out”, who claims to promote anti-age semantics and owning and celebrating your age…why do I cop out?
Well simply, aging is horrifying. No matter how positively you spin it with the merits of wisdom, self-knowledge, financial security, and maturity, let’s face it, it all sounds like a boring lump of shit. Add to that the humiliation of being caught out of place, in a club with a bunch of snotty Gen Z 20-year-olds who must undoubtedly be thinking, why is my mom here? It all starts to stink, not of teenage spirit I fear, but of imposter syndrome.
The kind of imposter who partied way more than intended this summer - basically jamming all 365 days of clean adulting into 2 months of delinquent adolescent behavior. It was fun while it lasted, but at some point, at 3am, that stale stench of aging-out-of-the-game starts to permeate. And whilst I try to convince myself that I still have a good bit of party left in me, well the hangover that comes with it just doesn’t “hang” so well the next day. Or the day after that either.
Which makes me wonder a) what the hell am I doing here on a cramped dancefloor, sweating profusely in a questionable boob tube while stuffing my ears with bunched up toilet paper to muffle the throbbing sound of EDM music that I don’t even like, and b) is there a limit to activities one should no longer partake in before it looks and feels morally tragic. Like clubbing. Or skateboarding. Both have a sellout date, but not exactly sure when those expire.
(Ok, skateboarding really should be reconsidered after 23, not because it’s a security hazard, but primarily because it is morally crippling to see a grown man - and/ or woman, although it’s worse for men for some sexist reason - on a skateboard, or worse, “commuting” to work on a Segway scooter).
Ultimately, what causes these calamitous states of confusion is that many of us in our middle age, still feel young at heart.
Young at heart. Damming as it may be, it’s what makes us take those leaps of faith towards joyful, spontaneous combustion, when we should know better. Like buying group tickets to 3-day festivals we can’t really handle, checking into a “love motel” after a 10pm dinner seating, spontaneously booking a weekend rampage to Amsterdam, wearing latex, eating gluten, or taking the ill-fated advice of your other “young at heart” middle rager, and slamming that extra shot.
Sure, it all yields to disastrous effect. But also, a little bit of fun, tragically inappropriate as it may seem.
One that my brain, and body are begrudgingly adjusting to as I realize that things have gotten wired a little differently as of late. Not entirely out of commission. Just different things sparking newfound attention. Moments that felt life defining now feel life defying. Unfortunately, you can no longer have your cake and eat it too, unless its portion controlled, vegan and dairy free. You can instead subscribe to “moderation”. Balanced, sensible, vanilla flavored moderation.
I told you. Aging is boring as fuck.
Thankfully, the French seem to have a better grasp on this, leveraging insouciance, style, intellect, and cultivated taste into their formula for maturation. Which still sounds a bit like a consolation prize, but when dealt with a haughty demeanor really does seem to lend an upper hand to “low brow moderation”.
Curiously, they don’t even consider the vulgar details of age in the equation, doing more or less the same, moderate things in their youth as they do in their non-youth.
They simply carry on. Having affairs, not wearing bras, lying about not exercising (they do, but deny it like the plague), smoking their unfiltered cigarettes, drinking their heart-healthy red wine, not trading their morning coffee and the last dregs of dignity for green tea or decaf, joy-free lattes. They’re punk like that. Putain.
And then, serendipitously or because this is the last stab at the establishment, I’m served a post from Carine Roitfeld, the iconic former editor of Paris Vogue, celebrating her 68th birthday looking every bit like Iggy Pop as she ever did. There she is, hanging out in all the places she’s not supposed to, wearing all the things she’s supposedly aged out of; yet still carrying it off with relevance, confidence, and so much black eyeliner she’d do Alice Cooper proud. A sexagenarian’s spit in the eye of convention. And just like that I’m swayed to throw all caution and peri-menopausal moderation out the window.
The fabulous Carine Roitfeld rocking age like it’s nobody’s business.
Perhaps being young at heart isn’t about not seeing age. But seeing it fully, acknowledging its presence, clocking it, and not giving a fuck about it anyway.
So maybe I will see you the dance floor after all. And this time if you ask me my age, I’ll gladly tell you.
Gleefully yours,
Lara
xoxo
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