Just a Number
"Thirty-nine,” she replied without flinching. The perfect poker face. This was how my British friend responded when the dental receptionist asked for her age. Except she is not 39. She is 55. A beautiful, mature 55-year-old who cannot bear the thought of middle age, let alone old age.
I have tried for years to convince her to embrace her age, stressing that the associated maturity, confidence and self-awareness are attributes that the beautiful, young things plastered across our magazine covers have not yet attained.
My great-grandmother died when she was 104 and her sister reached 107. Their generation embraced aging. They were proud of it. Each milestone, with its accumulated wisdom, was welcomed and celebrated. Nowhere values the elderly more than Japan, with its Respect for the Aged Day in September.
It seems that ageism is very much a Western, 21st-century phenomenon, with everyone from singers to actresses to journalists worried that they will no longer be relevant if they are considered old.
My friend dismisses my argument. She assumes that when people know her age, they will treat her differently. The problem is people treat her differently when they hear she is 39. The dental receptionist looked at her with polite horror. “No, really?” she said, followed by a look of pity. In any culture, that look says, “You poor thing, you must have endured a hard life to possess a face as time-ravaged as yours.” Trust me, no one wants the pity look.
Shortly after I arrived in Japan, I had to have surgery on my 45-year-old neck. In advance of the procedure, I was very formally presented with my hospital card. There was a lot of bowing (which is hard to do when wearing a neck brace that makes you look like a Kayan Lahwi tribeswoman), and I respectfully placed the card in my wallet.
The card showed my name in katakana and all the dates followed the Japanese calendar. Suffice to say, the card meant nothing to me. Literally.
On the appointed day, I arrived at hospital admissions. Total confusion ensued. No one was expecting me. Through a fog of painkillers, I remembered my hospital card. The nurse studied it and passed it to her colleagues. In unison, they looked me up and down and nodded with approval. “Sally-san, sugoi!” one nurse exclaimed. I immediately presumed she meant I looked hot, but quickly dismissed such an absurd notion.
Months later, we unearthed a disparity between my hospital and insurance records. I recalled the reaction of the nurses that day and realized they had, indeed, been impressed with my hotness. For a 75-year-old.
I will be 50 in October, and I have decided to emulate my friend and lie about my age. Except I am going to say I am 60. Why risk getting a “No, really?” I’ll take a “Sugoi!” any day.
Words: Sally Sheridan
Illustration: Tania Vicedo
