Age is just a number’ is an interesting concept. Sometimes the just is warranted; sometimes, it’s not.
While my age – 82 – has never been a particular problem for me, it has sometimes been a problem for others.
Cases in point:
As I headed into middle age – now many years ago – I met a wall of ageism when trying to find a full-time, permanent job.
At 39, I was referred to by one personnel manager as “that elderly lady.” I never got the job. It was given to a 21-year-old who left the job after less than a year when she became pregnant. For me, age, in this case, was not just a number.
At 48, I returned to university to pursue a master’s degree.
The first comments I heard from two different profs, as I trekked from office to office trying to scout out a potential graduate advisor:
1) “Well, it has been over 25 years since you completed your under-graduate degree. Do you really think you could cut the mustard now?”
And 2) “Wouldn’t you just be happier at home baking cookies for your grandchildren?”
If ever I needed a muzzle, it was then. My first inclination was to tell these two guys to sod off, but I bit my tongue, kept my eye on the prize and persevered.
When I finally walked across the stage to accept my degree a couple of years later, I felt my major accomplishment hadn’t been so much in achieving my degree, but rather in having overcome all the obstacles along the way, most based on my age, which had indeed not been just a number.
At 55, I decided once again to return to university for an ‘unclassified year’ while trying to decide what to do with the rest of my life.
By then, my many years as a single parent bringing up two sons had come to an end. My chicks had flown the nest, and I dreaded falling victim to the empty-nest syndrome.
Originally, from a science background, I decided to tackle something completely unrelated to science and enrolled in a Chinese language course. By the end of that one year, I’d been awarded a China-Canada Scholarship for one year’s study in China – all expenses paid.
Over the next dozen years or so in China, I found myself more and more in demand. My primary employment was as a full-time university English teacher. However, there were all kinds of other activities I became involved in: tv commercials, textbook editing, audio recordings, International English Language Testing System (IELTS) testing/teaching, and freelance writing/photography for local publications. Age here really was just a number.
There was one exception and that was due to Zhang Hao. Zhang Hao was a self-styled movie agent who used to prowl university grounds looking for a ‘new face,’ and my face just happened to be ‘new’ on the afternoon he was prowling around my university.
One evening at about 10:30, almost in a frenzy, he rang me up to tell me that his brother would be picking me up within the hour. Apparently, a director wanted to meet me.
It was nearly midnight before we entered the sound stage, all lined with movie-star wannabies in costume, most of whom were half asleep.
As we headed over to the director’s office, Zhang Hao asked me, almost as an after-thought, how old I was. When I told him, he gruffly instructed me to tell the director I was 20 years younger. I burst into gales of laughter. No way could I, then in my mid-60s, pass myself off as someone in her mid-40s.
In we went to the director’s office. The director had a careful look at me, asked me a few questions, told me to read a few lines, paused again, looked me over again and then told Zhang Hao that I was definitely worth considering for the part. (At that stage, I still wasn’t even sure what the part was.)
Then, as an after-thought, the director asked me, “How old are you?” When I told him, dead silence.
He looked at Zhang Hao; Zhang Hao glowered at me, and all I could do was laugh. Not surprisingly, I didn’t get the part.
According to a very angry Zhang Hao, I should have lied about my age. Age in this instance was not just a number. It was the death knell to alleged fame and fortune, and still all I could do was laugh.
As my clock continued to tick towards my 70s, I found myself at an NGO in Jordan. The staff there was delighted to have me, and I was equally delighted to be there. Age here was just a number.
Again, with one exception – perhaps with tongue in cheek – was the boss’ remark that I got wind of several months after I’d arrived.
Immediately prior to my arrival, it seems she was worried as to whether, at my age, I’d be able to climb the stairs to the second floor to reach my accommodation.
When I heard this, I simply couldn’t stop laughing. The boss herself was about 18 years my junior and never seemed to be without a cigarette hanging from her face. When she wasn’t wheezing, she was coughing out huge plumes of blue smoke and struggling to talk let alone walk.
Within mere days of my arrival, she was loudly complaining that I was walking far too fast, and she simply couldn’t keep up with me.
Now, I don’t think of age as just a number or not just a number. Age, for me, is not pretending to be someone I’m not. Age, for me, is not trying to look half my age; rather, it’s trying to look good for the age I am.
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