Age is a number, but not just a number, as Susan Dix Lyons has learned.
I’m in the checkout line at the supermarket with a bottle of wine on the conveyor. “Date of birth?” the clerk asks. I give her the date as I fumble with my credit card, when I’m startled by a voice behind me.
“Wow, I can’t believe you had to do that in front of me!” the guy next in line says. I turn to look at him. He’s about my age. His teenage daughter is by his side.
This is a public service announcement for men who feel badly for women like me who get older with time. I believe your intentions are good. You’re probably just trying to shield me from the social blot of snatched youth. But believe me when I say that I don’t regard my date of birth as something cringeworthy or unfortunate.
I might point out that the designer Vera Wang started her business at 40, that abolitionist Sojourner Truth was 54 when she gave her “Ain’t I A Woman” speech, or that film director Kathryn Bigelow won an Oscar at 57.