Here's what I've learned over the past few weeks, while doing interviews for my new book, "Drinking Problems at the Fountain of Youth." Even in 2008--or perhaps especially in 2008--it's considered shocking for a woman of a certain age to own up to that age publicly.
It always goes down the same way: The interview is almost over, but the reporter has one more question. Her tone turns apologetic, as if prompting a tsunami victim to recall the deluge: "I'm sorry," she'll say, "but I've got to ask, how old are you?" Or, "You don't have to tell me, but ..."
When I give up the goods without missing a beat--"I'm 47"--the response is inevitably one of surprise: "You tell your age?"
Well, it's not my favorite thing to do -but even less appealing is becoming the kind of woman who coyly pleads the Fifth. Once the question's been asked, you're left thumping two dubious melons. If you opt for honesty, the pale, naked truth is out there. Fudge the number, and you've just entered the pool in your beach sarong. Yeah, you think you're concealing some lumpy unpleasantness, but really, you've all but shrieked "I've got something to hide!"
Why should my age--or yours--be shameful? Should I be embarrassed that I've let myself pass not only 40, but 45? What will my indolence and weak character lead me to next? Fifty? If I were a stronger person, or more skilled, the unspoken logic goes, I wouldn't have let things get so out of hand. I would have remained an age that doesn't need to be whispered. Thirty-two, perhaps.
A friend who's in her how-did-this-happen-to-me's says she often senses smugness from younger people. "They think they're better than me just because they're younger. It's as if they've won."
Inevitably, when a story about my book runs, the majority of comments are not about the content of the piece. Instead, this is what I hear: "You're so brave to give your age," people say (and by "brave" they mean "foolhardy"). Or, "I didn't know you were 47."
That's the remark that really gets to me. It's a compliment, but it sets me thinking about the worst-case scenario: What if someone read the article and thought, yeah, 47, that sounds about right. How damning would that be? To be taken for a woman my own age? In a world which demands we "defy" our real age with creams and injections and artful resculpting, it's no longer enough to look good for your age; you've got to look a quarter of a century younger. If you aren't carded in your mid-40s, well, we'll keep you in our prayers.
But here's the thing I've learned about getting older. No matter how ghastly an age seems when it strikes -- Mayday! I've hit 50 and I'm taking on water! -- inevitably, in a few short years, you'll look back fondly at your relative youth. Fifty? Pfft. That's kid stuff.