As a feminist, I have a huge issue with the whole never-ask-a-lady-her-age rule. Why? Because as a lady, as a feminist, I’m not ashamed of my age. I’m forty-fucking-three years old, and I’ve earned the right to be proud of it.
Of course, I look about 10 years younger, so maybe, just maybe, I’d feel differently if I looked 43. But still, I like to think I would be just as proud.
If we do not object to a society where it’s perfectly okay to ask a man his age, but rude to ask a woman her age, then we give permission to society to shame women for aging. That makes about as much sense as shaming men for losing their hair, or their sexual drive, as they age. It’s not okay. And both men and women shouldn’t stand for it. Go ahead. Ask me my age.
Look, we’re ALL getting old. We’re all going to die. We’re all mortal, weak, and vulnerable to everything from the flu to cancer. Why should we ever be ashamed of our age? The fact that I’m 43, and I’m here, and I’m a productive and contributing member of society, and I take care of myself without being a burden to anyone, well, isn’t that something to cheer? Go ahead. Ask me my age.
I’m proud of being 43. I’m proud that as depressed as I was as a teen, I didn’t kill myself. I’m proud that I survived my twenties, while I was riddled with anxiety and panic attacks. I’m proud that I made it through my thirties, even though that was the decade that I discovered that I didn’t actually know everything. And I’m proud, goddamn proud, to be 43, soon 44, and still feeling optimistic about life – regardless of the fact that I am newly divorced, sans family in Sin City, and coming to terms that I am considered a “cougar” on the dating scene. To hell with it. Go ahead. Ask me my age. I will look you square in the eye with confidence and fortitude and proudly say to you, “I’m 43.”
Now, I have one question for you. How old are you?