What’s My Age Again?

I went through a huge Blink 182 phase. I even bought a bass guitar and attempted to start an all girl band. After realizing that I sucked at playing the bass guitar, I let go of my rock star dream. Unless you could become a rock star playing the french horn (hidden talent). But I don’t think you can.

On my way to work this morning, the sun shining brightly in my eyes, blue skies as far as the eye can see (which is pretty far considering I live in Saskatchewan), I listened to a radio host wish his fiance a Happy Birthday but then refuse to mention her age. Yesterday it was my co-workers birthday and she too, wouldn’t admit her age.

Why are we women so ashamed of our age?

I admit that the impending doom that lurks around the corner as I approach 30, is terrifying. All of the expectations that I had for myself and accomplishments I thought I would have made by this age seem to be piling up and the window of time for getting them all done is becoming smaller every day. But my life doesn’t end at 30, and why does that number matter so much to me?

Really, I feel like I know myself better than I ever have. I’m able to step away from situations and try to decipher where my emotions are rooted – this is a skill I’ve only just developed, and I think it comes with age. As you age you are able to really pinpoint what is important in your life and you have real moments of self-actualization. So if life continues on this way, with a tight group of friends that continue to know you better than anyone, you get to know yourself more, you have incredible experiences, why do we have such an issue with aging?

It’s sexist too. Of course. Men age and go grey, they’re labelled “silver foxes”, women age and go grey and they’re just old grannies. I have greys (many) and I feel like they are worse than any huge zit I had in highschool. I relish in getting ID’d. I love asking people how old they think I am (only when they answer much younger than I am). But really, who gives a shit how old I am? The older I get, the more wisdom I gain. I shouldn’t be ashamed of this.

It’s interesting to see even the hardest set feminists refuse to reveal their age. It’s clearly a product of patriarchy and it’s relegated largely to our abilities and sexuality. Do we women ever reach an age without a fucking label? Cutie, doll, baby, tomboy, princess, slut, whore, bitch, cougar, milf. The list is long and encompasses every age group. Our bodies are judged much harsher as gravity takes over and years of laughing leave their prints on our faces. It’s all so negative. I do not want to grow up being ashamed of my age, my body, my looks, and especially, my wisdom. I hope that women can stop trying to impress something or someone by attempting to obtain unrealistic or unneeded versions of beauty.


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