Ladies, never put yourself in an "Age Box."

Getting old is no treat; neither is the treatment the elderly get from our society.

Years ago I read a small article in a four-day-a week neighborhood throwaway newspaper that today is the Los Angeles Daily News.

I wish I would have saved it, but I never forgot the essence of it.  

This applies to men, too, but not equally.  They can get away with being older; they are called "distinguished," while we're just old crones.  

Ever seen a woman with a "trophy husband" on her arm?  

Tell someone your age and they will forever lock you in an "age box" more secure than Al Gore's lock box.

To fully appreciate the idea of an age box, all you have to do is think of how many times you've hooked up with a friend or relative who moved away when their kids were babies.   

In your mind they are forever babies or tots, and you can't believe your eyes when meet up with them, and the kids are now in their late teens or early twenties.  You're surprised when you see how big they've gotten, even though your own kids grew and aged at the same rate.  

Oh, the tricks those impish little mind-benders play on us.  

Tell an older person you are 17, and they will forever think of you as being the immature 17-year-old you were even though you are now 47. It's the same thing that mothers do with their children. They are forever children no matter how old they are.  

Tell a young person you are 35, and in their mind you will forever be a doddering ancient person.  You might as well have told them you were 80.  

These things can either work for you or against you, just as lying about your age can.  

Every time I call a credit card company and they ask for year-of-birth as part of a litany of questions for me to identify myself, I have to explain I don't have a clue. I lie so much. Next verification question, please.  

I've actually gotten so bad about it, that I'm now younger than my children and tell people that they are the offspring from the previous marriage of the former Mr. Sand.  

I won’t even tell a doctor my real age. Let him think I’m a really healthy 73-year-old or in terrible shape for someone who’s only 49.   

Telling him how old you really are puts you in a physical ailment age box.  

Ask any woman who complained to her gyno that she’s having hot flashes at the age of 31, and he looks at her like she’s crazy. In fact, he'll tell her she’s crazy! It can’t happen! It doesn’t happen! It’s impossible!  

But, the instant she hits his magic menopause age number, she’s joined the ranks of the pathetic women who’ve entered "that time of life," and issued the perfunctory prescription of Premarin.   

Lying about one’s age is the same game one can play when one is slightly overweight, because no matter what the doctor says, you have no intention of dieting; you’re perfectly comfortable being a little rounded.    

The trick is to secret two five pound weights in your pockets before the weigh-in or wear a bulky coat and really heavy shoes.  He’ll tell you you’re getting a little tubby, and the next time his nurse weighs you, you lose the weights and automatically drop ten pounds.  

A stupid mind game. I suppose so, but I totally resent being asked my age.  What’s it to you, anyway?  

I don’t want anyone’s perception of me marred or altered by my age. Either I’m a doddering old or young person, or a with-it early ancient or mature younger person.     

This age sensitivity thing began just before my 30th birthday. And I have no idea why. 

A thousand reasons could account for it. The main ones being a total unhappiness with my life at the time; a marriage and husband I couldn’t stand; motherhood not being the fairy tale it was cracked up to be; total frustration that I wasn’t where I thought I’d be at that age; or that anyone over the age of 30 was a totally useless imperfection on the butt of society.  

Like all those things don’t still exist and probably always will...at least in our society.  

We were then and still are a society completely obsessed with youth and bodily-perfection; an obsession that is a conundrum when so many of us are overweight.  

We’re a society that is bombarded with obnoxious health ads and behaves as though it’s a commendable achievement to live to be 100, while with its other mouth, treats its people of age and maturity like crap.  

Get laid off from a good job when you’re in your 40s or 50s and try to get another one that pays as well.  You’ll be lucky if you get a $5 an hour job as a hamburger flipper working next to and being handed a ration of disrespect by the teenage manager or the teens you work with.  

The only one who might appreciate you, is the person whose order you take. He might have some faith and hope that you have the maturity and sense not to screw up his order.  

Telling us to live longer and treating the elderly badly is something my cousin, a practicing physician on the Big Island of Hawaii, has always railed against.  

She can’t understand why we treat oldsters so badly, after all the Chinese revered their old folks and took care of them when they became infirmed.  

After hearing her thesis many times, I had to shed some reality on her philosophy.  

Of course, they had to put grandpa to bed and take care of him; they had no choice in the matter. It was kinder and more civilized than putting old people who can’t take care of themselves and are very ill out on the ice or in the wilderness to let nature do its thing.  

Which reminds me, I’m very unhappy that the ice berg that has my name on it, is melting.  

I digress. Back to the Chinese. First, I reminded her that besides not having any choice in the matter, extended families living together was part of their culture, as well as old folks being revered, something that's never been part of our culture.  

Also, and a very cold thought at that, but nonetheless true, they didn’t have to put up with a sick grandfather for that long. Extraordinary means of keeping people alive long past the time when they would have normally died, hadn’t been invented yet.  

Grandpa either recovered from his stroke or whatever ailment he had, or he came down with pneumonia from lying on his back for an extended period of time, and nature did the rest.  

Getting old is no treat; neither is the treatment the elderly get from our society.  

So ladies, save yourself some unnecessary grief: don’t ever tell anyone how old you are.  

Keep ‘em guessing, it’s good for them and better for you.