The first time I met my now-husband’s parents, I got ID’d. Let me paint a picture of the humiliating scene for you. We were at a lovely restaurant, sitting around a table with his parents, brother, sister-in-law and nephews. I actually wasn’t even drinking, but in order to serve wine to the rest of the group, the waiter insisted that he see my ID.
So ideal, isn’t it? Having to whip out my (provisional) driving license in front of my new older boyfriend’s entire family. Like he’s dating a child.
I remember wanting to jump up and strangle the waiter. I still don’t think I’m fully over the trauma of the whole affair. But it didn’t stop there.
Throughout my late twenties I would hold my breath entering bars, praying I didn’t get asked to offer up my ID. Out of habit, I still tense up when I go into clubs as if I’m doing something wrong. And even now, I spend a lot of time at self-service checkouts tackling bemused looks from supermarket staff with my ID in hand as I attempt to purchase a bottle of Barefoot Pinot Grigio.
It spans beyond alcohol-related situations though. My new driving instructor said he thought I was a young girl waiting at the side of the road, not his new pupil. The lady at the bank looked at me sceptically when I told her I’d like to open a business account. People regularly refuse to believe I’m married.
It was when I turned 30 it all seemed to get a bit out of control. The thing is, when you’re 28 or even 29 and you look 23, people can get over it. Because you’re still in your twenties. But when you turn 30 there seems to be an enormous leap in expectation worth several years rather than just one. When I utter ’30’ in response to people asking my age, they all of a sudden seem disproportionately flabbergasted.
This in itself is not problematic. There are worse problems in the world. It’s my response to it that bothers me.
‘Unfortunately not!’ I exclaim in response to remarks that I could be in my mid-twenties. ‘Sadly not, wish I was!’ I laugh, dismissing some of the most valuable years of my life as surplus. It’s as if I’m handing over the last five years – please, take them! – in exchange for the compliment.
Do I wish I was younger? I know that I don’t. I am 100% fine with being 30. It’s everyone else that seems to have a problem.
Every single time someone does a double take when I say I have a husband or have been working for nine years, it feels as if my valuable experience doesn’t matter. Their shocked faces seem to imply I’ve snuck into the 30 Club uninvited and under the radar. They assume time has crept up on me and here I am, 30, bam! When actually, I have been on this planet consciously for 30 years and I’m proud of what I’ve achieved in that time. I didn’t ask for their scrutiny and judgement.
It makes me feel like I should apologise. How dare I be 30 and have lived 30 years on this earth and have all those amazing years of experience? Perhaps I should shrink back in on myself, stay small.
But looking back, I know I’ve done it myself. I can remember many conversations in my early twenties with people who revealed they were (shock horror) 30+ and I remember squeaking, ‘No! You don’t look it!’ thinking it was a huge compliment and sort of what you had to say.
But now I absolutely wouldn’t react that way. It’s patronising and an attitude that assumes everyone wants to be younger over and above anything else. It assumes that, if they could, they’d rewind to 25. And perhaps some people would – but it should never be up to another person to assume that.
Of course, it’s hard not to simper and smile and say thank you when society has wired us from childhood to believe young is best. No matter how annoyed or embarrassed I am, I can’t help but feel the person means well.
But we have to dig deeper to understand the compliment is a backhanded one. You’re implying there is something negative about my actual age. And yes, I may look young, but my body and my bones are 30 years old. So, does that mean I’m completely screwed? I’m ancient? I should start getting my will in order?
It seems that if someone ‘looks young’ it’s a free-for-all when it comes to commenting on their age. It’s like an access-all-areas backstage pass that somehow makes randomly asking a grown woman her age completely acceptable.
And we have to mention the role gender plays here. It’s much more accepted to tell a woman they look young than a man. Telling a man he looks young would be considered rude and actually very awkward for him. It’s seen as a compliment for a woman and not a man. A woman is meant to smile prettily and accept how nubile and innocent she looks whilst a man ages into strength, experience, control.
Of course, it’s no surprise we’re wired this way. The majority of the advertising we see is about youth, and women over 50 are grossly under-represented. Only in recent years are we seeing diversity creeping in when it comes to age.
There’s Bo Gilbert, the 100-year-old Harvey Nichols model. Or 97-year-old Iris Apfel, who rose to fame from documentary Advanced Style and subsequently created a collection with MAC and modelled for Kate Spade. She calls each of her wrinkles ‘a badge of courage’, and rightly so. And, of course, brands like L’Oréal and Dove have been age agnostic for a while now. Which is all brilliant.
But this brings me to a final twist in the tale. Can I truly say I’m comfortable with my age and still slather on my six-part skincare routine every night? If I truly wanted to embrace ageing, wouldn’t I just let it happen? Perhaps I’d get less people telling me I look young if I binned my retinol serum?!
Does feeling a little upset when my concealer falls into my crow’s feet make me ageist? Yes, I look young naturally and it’s in my DNA (thanks mum) but my skincare routine is probably doing a little of the heavy lifting. Basically, I want fresh, youthful skin, I want to keep the experience of my thirty years and I don’t want strangers to comment on how old I may or may not be. So, shoot me.
The latest development for me as I approach 31 is the crossover from ‘Oh, you look younger,’ to ‘You look good for your age,’ which is perhaps worse. It makes me feel as if I’m some ancient, crusty being trapped in a younger shell.
It’s all prompted me to think carefully about how I feel about my age. Because I need my response at the ready. I want to be prepared.
So, I’m practising saying, ‘I’m 30’ in a calm, level, matter of fact voice. I’m owning it. I’m not cowering or apologising or admitting something awful. I’m stating a fact. And while I’m not going to ditch the ginseng eye cream anytime soon, I’m definitely not wishing away one single day of those 30 years.
Artwork by Esme Rose Marsh
