Hag. Phooey, Young

Watch yourself. Auntie is on the warpath. Someone just called me “young lady”.

Again.

Please pay attention this time. I repeat:

“Young” is NOT a compliment!

You can’t really tell from the pic, but my hair is more gray than not. If I wanted to be young, or even to be seen as young, I would dye it. If I thought younger is better, then a little Botox would smooth my 51 ½ year old brow.

Hell, if I wanted you to think I’m young, I wouldn’t tell you how old I am.

“Young lady” is condescending and patronizing as well as annoying and wrong. It’s usually spoken with a disingenuous fake smile by people who are less than half my age.

They think they’re flattering me. They’re not.

They wouldn’t call one of their contemporaries young, there’d be no point. Therefore, their point in calling me young is that I’m old. I already know that, thanks.

Younger isn’t better, it’s just younger.

Sure, younger is prettier and more idealistic. But if you’re so zealous, and you care so damn much about everything, then why do I get more done in a day than you do? Hm?

Ok, so I’m kind of stuck coming up with more examples of the benefits of age.

My checkbook balances better than yours, but you probably do everything online and don’t even use a checkbook. I have an excellent plumber, and the oil in my car is changed every three months or 3,000 miles. Yippee.

Sometimes they give me a discount at the movies even though I’m 8 ½ years shy. I’ve never asked for a senior ticket. Gray hair = $1.50. Woohoo.

I’ll grant you, young has fewer aches and gripes. No, I take that back.

Young has gripes. Young is whiny.

Old isn’t whiny. Old is grumpy. I prefer grumpy. Now get off of my lawn.