“Over 35? Your Opinion Does Not Matter”

This week at my company, HR sent out an email asking people to take a survey. “All responses are welcome,” it said. “More the merrier,” it said.

 Yeah, right. If you were born in 1981 or earlier, the only question you got to answer is, “What year were you born?” That automatically sent you to a screen that said, “Thank you for completing the survey.”

Wait, what? I didn’t complete anything. Apparently if you’re over the age of 34, you’re disqualified from having an opinion—or at least sharing it. Because God knows you’re so old you don’t remember what your opinion is anyway. Or maybe they don’t care because, let’s be frank, if you’re approaching 40 (or, gasp, something higher) you’re probably gonna die soon anyway. Why bother?

I didn’t stick around long enough to think too hard about it—I answered my one-question survey, got the thank-you screen, then headed to the mall. Because the one thing more fun than being told, “You’re too old to matter” is shopping for jeans.

That’s right. I had denim to purchase. So it’s a good thing that survey didn’t take up too much of my precious time here on earth. I probably don’t have much left, and be damned, mom-jeans at Target, you’ll never cover my booty, whether it’s dead or alive.

 So I went to Macy’s.  Ahem—the junior section.

 I was there for about three minutes before I decided I’d need an energy drink to tackle this challenge. I turned to go find myself a Red Bull, and that’s when a perky little Couldn’t-Be-Bigger-Than-A-Size-Two-Even-When-She’s-PMSing 20-something stopped me with a big pearly white smile and said, “Ma’am, can I help you find something?”

 Ma’am?! Excuse me, what do I look like—a woman who’s too old to complete a survey?

 “Sure,” I answered. “I’m looking for jeans. Size . . . bigger than you.”

 “Okay, great. For your daughters?”

That’s when I wanted to go, “Thank you for completing this survey, you’re done here, have a nice day.” But I fake-smiled politely instead and said, “No. For me. If your double-zero booty could help me find something to cover my double-wide, I would really appreciate it. How about you show me what your mom might like.”

 “Oh, sure! But, well . . . she shops in that section over there.”

 She pointed across the store to where mature women shop for jeans. With walkers. And canes. And therapy pets. You know—the section where you go when you’re too old to take surveys.

“Thank you, little girl. I can handle it from here.” I tried on 562 pairs of jeans in the junior section that day. No, really. Then I went to the women’s section, tried on five and bought three. They’re not mom-jeans, unless your definition of that is “jeans that completely cover your ass, work with your curves and don’t come in a paint can.”

Later that night, I got a message from a man who’d seen my profile on a dating site. “No way are you that old—seriously??” I mean, he followed it up with some flattery and BS about how he would have guessed younger, but the damage was done. Men: Never think a woman will respond positively when the first thing you mention is her age. Especially if you’re referring to her age as “that old.”

All of this and the fairly recent birthday I tried to avoid got me thinking about age this week and how we (well, those of us born in 1981 or earlier) always say, “It’s just a number,” and while that’s mostly true, the reality is, life changes as that number gets larger. It just does.

I spend more on skincare products than I did 20 years ago, and I’m going to a botox party in two weeks. Don’t judge—it’s for the wine and snacks.

I get sore from sleeping—don’t laugh if you know that the first step you take when you get out of bed may be the most painful of the day.

I work out regularly, but an injury that used to take me a week to recover from now takes me half a century.

But there is an upside to aging, too. And that’s what I propose all of us over the age of 34 focus on. Maturity, confidence, self-awareness, acceptance. Understanding what you’re good at and how to capitalize on your strengths as well as an intolerance for unnecessary drama—some things you simply acquire as the years tick by and you grow comfortably into your own skin.

So, survey, shmurvey. You’re old—be proud of it. Rock your old people jeans, proudly display that AARP card when it comes in the mail and go ahead and admit it: You have no idea what the hell “rizz” means.

Embrace your age, old people. Even if nobody wants to know what you think.