Don’t Ask How Old I Am. Please.

Amongst elders, there’s a commonly understood, but usually unspoken, rule:  Don’t ask a lady her age.

It’s impolite.  It’s unprofessional.  And it makes people uncomfortable.  There are just way too many ways to get the answer “wrong.”

Although I write this blog anonymously, under a banner that clearly states that I’m in my twenties, I don’t like to talk about my age.   As it turns out, I’m more than a little defensive about it.

People look down on twenty-year-olds.  Frankly, when I look around at my peers, I tend to look down on them too.  Maybe it’s resentment, maybe it’s that my chronic situation (among other things) makes it harder for me to relate.   Whatever it is, I don’t appreciate getting lumped in with “young people.”  I don’t feel young.

__

What brought this rant on?

The other day, after teaching a yoga class, one of the students made a comment to me about my age.  He said to me, “you’re really young.”
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I had three near simultaneous reactions.  At first, I was indignant. I thought, what difference does my age make?  Can’t a 20-something have wisdom to share?

My second response was, “yup.” As I write this I find myself more in the indignant camp.  But at the time, I recognized that I could take it as a statement of truth–though from my current seat, it seems unlikely that’s how it was intended.

The third and final response was more of a non-response.  And this is how I handled the conversation with the student in the moment.  I sort of himmed and hah-ed until he left and I took a shower, and the day carried on.

I’m sure there’s a right response somewhere in the “isn’t it great that I found this healing practice at my age” variety.  But I realized later that the whole thing kind of ticked me off.

I’m angry and defensive.  I’ve been through more than a lot, and while I’m aware I’m not the only one, I want all this crap to mean something.  I want my family drama, my childhood trauma and my chronic status to make me a stronger, wiser person.  Sometimes it just makes me angry and resentful.

Yes, I’m twenty-something.   Please know that I’d prefer not to talk about it.  Ok?