My least favorite kind of invite is one for a birthday party where the host coyly specifies stuff like “I’ll be turning 30 (again)” or “Come to my annual 35th birthday party, ha ha”. That kind of cutesy evasion of one’s real age only serves to underline just how very old these people must be! Just as bad is when you come right out and ask someone how old they are and they smirkily reply, “Between 40 and death” or simply roll their eyes and deviously refuse to answer. A friend of mine is so adamant about not saying his age that people are now speculating he’s in his late 80s. The mystery around the subject is driving up the interest rate at an alarming rate and suddenly people are cluck-clucking that he must be near death.
An age is just a number, kids, and since it’s admittedly not really important, people should just toss it off with casual pride. But the problem is, since everyone lies and evades about it, I have to do so too or get lost in the numbers shuffle! But I go in the other direction. I tell people I’m 75, and as a result get scads of attention for how great I look!
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on January 15, 2009