I was seven the first time someone pissed me off by trying to guess my age.

It was the 1970s. My parents had picked up a hitchhiker. He was a harmless-looking guy with shaggy white hair and a face full of friendly-looking wrinkles. He sat in the back seat of our Oldsmobile, wedged between my older brother and me.

“And how old are you, little girl?” he asked. “Five?”

“Five? Five?” I thought. I was seven! I was in Grade 2, man, not kindergarten! He might as well have asked me what species I was, not recognizing me as human. He at least had the decency to seem embarrassed by his gaffe.

But the indignity only grew worse with time.

My best friend in high school was precisely one month and 13 days older than me. She had the same colouring, the same hair, and the same eyes as me, so everyone assumed I was her sister. She was also six inches taller than me, so everyone assumed I was her little sister. Emphasis on little. When we were 16, we planned to go to a club with our older dates. We put on makeup and miniskirts and teased our hair in the ultimate 80s fashion. She looked like Madonna in Like a Virgin. I looked like jailbait. We didn’t even try to get in.

And on it went. When I was on practice teaching rounds for my B.Ed, a Grade 11 student shouted out in the middle of my lesson, “Hey Miss, how old are ya? Ya look, like, 14.” I was 26.

I was 28 the last time someone mistook me for a teenager.

It’s not like I’m trying to seem young. I haven’t so much as attempted follow fashion since the glory days (or perhaps gory days) of the 1980s. I wear sensible shoes and sensible glasses. I have a deep, mature-sounding voice and I religiously, like, totally avoid, you know, like, upspeak? I don’t even think I look terribly young. When I look in the mirror, I see strands of grey hair, crow’s feet and even nascent jowls descending. I don’t feel young, either. Put me in a group of 23-year-olds, and I feel ancient, out of touch, and filled with nostalgia for the days of my 23-year-old metabolism, energy and accompanying waistline.

Yet somehow, the appearance of youth hangs round my neck like the infamous albatross. Dorian Gray should be so lucky.

Throughout my youth, older women greeted my kvetching and indignation with a wistful sigh. “Oh, you’ll appreciate it when you’re older. Trust me,” they’d intone.

Yeah? Well I’m 36, now. I’m still short. I still have freckles. I still get called cute. And I still don’t appreciate it, jowls or no jowls.

I’ve always been curious about our fascination with age. What’s the first thing a stranger asks upon seeing a mother with a new baby? How old. Remember grade school? How often did your classmates associate with kids from another grade? And high school: remember what a big deal it was to date someone a year or two ahead of you, or even—gasp—to date someone already in university?

I thought the importance of age would change when I left school, when I was done growing up, when I was into the age where milestones happen by decades instead of weeks, months or years. But it doesn’t. Age still counts.

I’m not bragging when I say I’m routinely mistaken for being younger than I am. Not at all, even though advertising and popular culture tells me it’s something to brag about. Commercials tell me I should take up arms against crow’s feet and liver spots, that I must fill in deep wrinkles, and that I should be proud if I can pass a lie detector test while dissembling away five or six years. One so-called “reality” TV program even brags they can make anyone look 10 years younger in ten days, with a simple regimen of plastic surgery, invasive dentistry, trowel-loads of beauty products, and thousands of dollars worth of trendy attire.

But why would I want to look 10 years younger? That would make me 26: a scant three or four years out of university. In a workplace environment, that would make me a kid. A rookie. Not someone to take seriously. Not yet.

No, I’m not bragging. I’m still waiting for the years when I’ll be universally seen as a workplace grown up.

I’ve watched the behaviour of colleagues change when I tell them how old I am. It’s like a re-arrangement of the pecking order, regardless of rank or duty. One associate recently did an actual double-take when he found out I’m nine years older than he is. “Jeez,” he said. “I thought I had at least two years on you.” Sorry, my friend: that’s nine years, and they’re mine, baby. All mine.

So, for all my bytching and years of kvetching, I can see the merit in the situation.

In the workplace—or at least in the workplaces I’ve seen—age seems to be associated with experience. And with experience comes ability. Wisdom, rank and status usually follow.

It’s a welcome change of perspective from the 1970s and 80s, when women in their 30s and 40s earnestly informed me how vastly important youthful looks would soon be to me and my worth as a woman.

So forget the shame of fine lines, saggy boobs, grey hair and wrinkly necks. To hell with the “seven signs of aging” and the crèmes and lotions to fight them. Away with collagen, retinol, aloe and soy sourced from nature. In the workplaces I’ve seen, age represents experience, and with experience comes prestige. Unless you’re a fashion model, pop star, gymnast, or youth culture reporter, age can be a good thing.

(Can be. I’m only talking about work, afterall.)

Seems to me, I have some feminist fore-mothers to thank. From where I sit, it appears that generations of strong women in the workplace have had a powerful effect on workplace consciousness. And that experience is stronger than all the marketing that cosmetics companies can throw at us.

There may come a time when my age will mean I’m washed up in the eyes of my coworkers. But for now, I choose to count this as a feminist success.

And I’m counting each new grey hair as a badge of honour.


Sara Beck is freelance writer and podcaster. She also teaches communications at St. Lawrence College where, on the day of completing this article, she was once again mistaken for a student. You can listen to her bi-weekly novel podcast, The Shades Within, at www.rabble.ca/rpn/sha.

PS: at the time of publication, she was actually aged 35, 11 months and a handful of days. She prefers to round up.