One of the greatest baseball pitchers of all time, Leroy “Satchel” Paige, was confined by American racism to the “Negro League” for 19 years. He got his first crack at major league baseball playing for the Cleveland Indians in 1948, when he was 42 years old.

Along with his talent and personality, his advanced age blew people away. “How do you do it?” reporters asked. One of his great quips was, “Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” Ahhh. Balm for the American soul, confirmation for one of our favorite ideas: You’re as young as you feel (so if you feel—ugh—“old,” that’s on you).

Other times, Paige would reply to this question with a riddle, of sorts: “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” My first response to this question was ebullience. Of course! I can choose my age! And then I thought about it a little more and realized that the riddle itself embodies ageism – or at least, my response to it does.

Maybe Paige assumed that people would automatically think they were 10, 20, 30 years older than their actual years. But I doubt it. The liberation promised by the question—How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?—is that we get to choose to be younger—much younger—than we actually are. What a relief! Right?

Not so fast. (Though Paige’s high-precision fastball was legendary.) Satchel Paige was beloved and honored for many good reasons. And also for confirming our cherished belief that we can escape old age through the power of our minds. Nah. We can feel great while being older. But there’s only one way to evade old age, and most people want nothing to do with it. 

OK, how many of you over, say, 40, have had someone refer to you as “young lady,” or “this young lady”? It’s supposed to be a compliment, so I always feel a little guilty for glaring at the person who says it. But grrr. Calling me “young lady” assumes that (a) I want to be a young lady, (b) the age I actually am is just unfortunate, and (c) I’m stupid enough to think I can pass as “young.”

And it’s sexist as well ageist. Imagine a young woman calling a 60-year-old man, “young man.” It never happens. Why? Because older men have more status than older women, so calling them “young” would be seen as diminishing rather than flattering. Imagining the roles reversed reveals just how infantilizing the interaction is.

How not to rip the person’s head off
So how to correct this interaction without ripping the head off some well-meaning but benighted person? How about, “Young? I left young in the dust years ago.” “Aww, thanks. But honestly, I love my age!” What would (do) you say?

We’re all guilty of telling somebody at some time to act their age, right? Mostly, let’s face it, our kids. How about that 30-year-old who wouldn’t move out of his parents’ house? I think it’s fair to tell him (in Prince's immortal words) to act his age instead of his shoe size.

​But for older people, “act your age” means “Stop acting young.”

FOR EXAMPLE, my husband said to me recently, “You’re not 20. Your jeans shouldn’t have holes in them.” That hurt my feelings. For one thing, I look great in these jeans. For another, I got them cheap at Marshall’s, where I get most of my jeans. He’s happy enough for me to save the money!

When I protested, he compounded his insult by saying I was trying to look young!

Authenticity does not = dressing “old”
I never try to look anything other than what I am. I just feel good in the jeans. (I’m wearing them right now, in fact.) After a few harsh words, what I said to him was, “You do you. I’ll do me.”

Truthfully, there’s lots of stuff I won’t wear now because it seems too young–micro-miniskirts, for instance. Thigh-high leather boots. Stilettos. So, OK: although there was a time when I wore all those things (occasionally at the same time), I don’t wear them now because I’d look ridiculous.

But a lot of the time, “act your age” tells older people to hew to a diminished stereotype of aging. We’re supposed to be all dignified, slow, un-sexual, probably decrepit.

Well, no! I’m none of those things (except, occasionally, perhaps, dignified, but in a totally approachable way). Obviously, I’m of two minds (as usual, at least): on the one hand, I’ll self-edit for age-appropriateness; on the other hand I’m offended if anyone tells me to do that.

Do you self-edit?
When have you heard “act your age” and hated it? What did you say in response? Does this work the same for men and women? How have you self-edited your self-presentation as you’ve aged? How do you feel about it?

For some inspiration on this front, I highly recommend Ari Seth Cohen's terrific books, beginning with Advanced Style. I review him here.