The Sweet (Fake!) Ageist Comments I'm Tired Of

I’m 60. Crow’s feet, streaks of gray hair, flabby arms. In other words, I look my age — on the outside. But don’t cry for me, Argentina, because in recent years, the combination of menopause, divorce and semi-retirement has turned out to be surprisingly delightful for my insides.

My slowed-down old lady life allows me to indulge the passions of my elementary school self: reading books, daydreaming about horses, nurturing crushes on boys (who are usually 60 too), wondering whether I’m having ice cream today or not. 

As a result, inside I feel like I’m about 12. And I am happy with my outside, formed by six decades of life.

So, when well-meaning strangers at the car wash or grocery store call me “young lady” or “sweetie,” my head jerks up as if they’ve jolted me from a bad dream. It’s all I can do not to sucker punch these solicitous souls in the face. 

This bland ageism is not the worst form of discrimination. These few words — young lady, ma’am, honey bunch — don’t rob me of a paycheck or driver’s license. Nor are they actionable elder abuse. In fact, there are women my age who are not offended by these blandishments.

Some find the condescension kind, touching and considerate. Another 72-year-old friend sops up the fake-sweet ageism when people tell her, “Wow, you look much younger!” She says the words give her a dopamine hit. Just as some people enjoy the taste of maraschino cherries or yellow marshmallow baby chicks at Easter. It’s a matter of taste.

I, on the other hand, hate these deceits and endearments with a fierce passion. I am not young. I’m not sweet. I’m no lady, in the traditional white-gloves-in-church definition of the word.

I don’t want to be any of these things. 

Apparently, I’m in good company. On The Ethel Circle, our popular Facebook group for us “young ladies,” a recent post by a septuagenarian whose dentist called her “dear” garnered more than 1,000 comments. Teresa Dewey, 75, from Oroville, California, was one of them. “They do this because we're older. I've had people talk loud to me. I have to tell them to lower their voices. My hearing is better than most younger people. A teller was baby talking to a lady next to me. I told her to stop. It's very demeaning.”

What really sticks in my craw is that, to my ear, these ageist endearments are insults wrapped in a supposed compliment. A therapist once called this kind of passive-aggressive phraseology “A Slug in a Tuxedo.” The pretense that I’m young, when I’m clearly not, implies that I actually want to be younger than 60. The assumption being that all things younger are superior to all things older, that being a “young lady” is better than being an irreverent old crone. 

I’d proudly march in a parade to celebrate that none of these ageist assumptions are true. I do not want to be younger, thinner or smoother. I love my age and my scars. I cherish my cynicism because I worked hard for it. Instead of lying and calling me “young lady,” I want people who see me as I am. Call me “old lady” with respect and I’d glow with happiness.

Where are the people who honor older women’s experience and wisdom? Why doesn’t our society rejoice in the hard-earned gifts of older women? Being older is, on so many levels, much better than being younger.