Old at 30???

Today is my best friend’s birthday. She is 30 now, whip-smart, beautiful, humane, happily married since last June and on her way to a law degree next June. But the lead-up to this round-number anniversary has been hard. She says she is not young anymore and that, she believes, is a bad thing.

Whose fault could that be?

Maureen Dowd, who is an Op-Ed columnist for The New York Times might have something to do with it. Contemplating some new research which appears to show that severe stress leads to premature aging, she wrote in yesterday’s newspaper:

“So now…I have to be stressed about the fact that my holiday stress might cause me to turn into an old bat – instantly, just like it happened in Grimm’s fairy tales, when a girl would be cursed and suddenly become a crone.

“Or, just like this Christmas doll my sister brought home once that had an apple for a head; her face looked all juicy and white at the start of the week and then by the end of the week, it was all discolored and puckered.”

- The New York Times, 5 December 2004

Once again, age is depicted as a horror: “old bat,” “cursed,” “crone,” “puckered.” I don’t mean to pick on Ms. Dowd; her abhorrence at the inevitable physical changes of aging is only the most recent example I ran across of the abundant, negative references and advertisements promoting wrinkle remedies of dubious efficacy, repeated every day in various magazines, newspapers and on television. No wonder my friend – or anyone - is afraid.

We, as a culture, are terrified of getting old but, typically, its physical manifestations are uppermost in our consideration and unmentioned, always, is an underlying fear it represents: that activity, intellectual pursuit, ambition, desire and pleasure decline and disappear with age. But it’s just not so.

Over the weekend. I ran into another, different kind of column by one Reverend Dale Turner in The Seattle Times, which speaks to this. All of it is worth repeating, but here are three of his points:

“David Starr Jordan, the first president of Stanford, thought his most productive years were between the ages of 60 and 70, and Bertrand Russell, the humanist, was leading causes for peace in England when he was in his 90s."

“Our American youth cult has created the silly concept that in youth alone is beauty, excitement and achievement to be found. The joys of youth are often better in retrospect. ‘The carefree days of youth’ is really a misnomer. ‘Thank God,’ said Rudyard Kipling, ‘we never have to suffer again as we did when we were young.’"

“It is a mark of ingratitude to resent growing old. There are those who have been denied the privilege…”

- The Seattle Times, 4 December 2004

The entire column is worth a read. In an anecdote about the first woman to serve in the British Parliament, the good reverend also mentions a phenomenon I’ve noticed as I strive to embrace my aging self. Lady Astor, he tells us, had worried that when she was 80, she would not be able to do the things she liked to do. When she arrived at 80, however, she discovered she didn’t want to do those particular things any longer.

My young friend has come to one Lady Astor-style realization, at 30, years before I did: she no longer feels she must pull herself together perfectly just to go to the corner deli.

It is a terrible thing our society does to young people and all the rest of us when it bombards us daily from birth with messages that 30 is already old. It hurts me that my friend - whom I’ve known since she was 14 and with whom I grew close while she lived with me for several months on three separate occasions – must endure the same old prejudices of aging I’ve had to struggle against. She is wise beyond her years in some ways already and I know she will succeed . But shouldn’t we be done with all this by now?

Comments

[Laura]

We should be, and yet there are so many magazines and articles and so on that perpetuate this image.

It's kind of funny. When I was in my teens and early twenties, I hung out online with various groups of mixed ages. What I learned is that age means perspective, understanding, and often (but not always) confidence. Why? Experience, I would assume. I know that I seem to settle the more of it I acquire.

I'll be thirty in January. Old? You have to be kidding me. People live to be far older than that. Certainly at 30 I will be older than the child who sprawled on the floor with fiction books while ignoring her homework. I should hope I will - I've learned so much better than I knew then!

Which is my way of saying that I agree with you, but that how much one buys into that garbage depends on exposure levels also.

Also, really, on my 30th birthday - I will be only one day older than the day before, just like every other day. Drawing the line and saying "you're old then" is insane. It's just a day - just one more day. And the one that comes after it will be too.

[Cop Car]

Laura--It blew my mind to read that someone had been hanging out online as a teenager!!! Yowzie! I think that the majority of young women (like you), these days, have level heads on their shoulders and will do quite nicely in accummulating inner wealth over the years.

Ronni--Some of us are old bats (well, at least one of us) are adamant that no one pity us for being what we are. (I liked Mr. Reagan's attitude about not taking advantage of the youth of his opponent in his race for the presidency.) How dare anyone pity me--especially when I am so self-righteously busy pitying them for being inexperienced--LOL.
We should all live so long and be so lucky as to become old bats! (BTW: What is the male equivalent of this sexist "old bat"?)

[Faith]

For men, we can choose from Old Coot and Geezer. I prefer the former, but they both benefit from distinct sound combinations and vivid imagery. You can just see him. "Old Bat", on the other hand, seems more a mental reference, conjuring up no particular image in my mind's eye.

As for your Lady Astor post, Imelda, a male friend of mine says I must have been born in high heels. I will never buy anything less than a 3 incher. The trick may be to never stop wearing them - to warp the spine into just the right unnatural arch to avoid the old lumbo-sacral disc bulge. (I have an issue with seeing them sell for $400 a pop, but that is another issue altogether.)

I don't remember taking any particular cue from my 30th birthday. One day does blend into the next, and yes it is a privilege to grow old. I will admit, however, to a touch of depression, the railroad crossing clang if you will, over the inevitable loss of fertility and vision. Everything else so far has been superficial. I can peel away wrinkles and suck out eye bags, but noticing ingrediant labels blur tells me the insides are going too. I am not overly fond of being reminded of death at the same time that life, finally, seems to be getting better.