“You’re Doing Great … For Your Age”

When my nonagenarian mother grumbled after a doctor’s appointment, having been told with cheer “you are doing great for your age!,” I interpreted it as wanting what wasn’t great fixed, not blown off—an inability to accept her age and abilities, her own ageism. But I wonder, now, if she was calling out the young doctor’s ageism, that he should be treating her, not her age. At best, the “for your age” was unnecessary, and patronizing.

Ageism is the last bastion of political incorrectness, and no one is going to fight it with us or for us. No one else cares, until they arrive there themselves; and we’re tired of fighting all the “isms” by then. But if we stop contributing to it, both personally and publicly, we are challenging it, right? From the fight for acceptance by the gay community we can learn this: They were able to individually and collectively own their identity without apologies or shame. They worked an activism of self-love.

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The ownership of where one is in life on one’s own journey is powerful and empowering.

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Getting up to greet my grandchildren one morning on a visit with my daughter’s family, I swiped tinted moisturizer on my lips. (I rarely wear make-up, and when I do, I’m not sure why.) Very observant nine-year-old Elliot greeted me with, “Gigi, why are you wearing lipstick?” Off-guard, I replied, “So you won’t think I’m old.” My response might have been truthful, but it only contributed to ageism, his and mine. I wish I’d just said because I felt like it.

What do you see when you look in a mirror? Go ahead, look. Do you only see wrinkles and sagging skin? Yes, they are there, it’s a fact of the third act, it’s what the body does. And what else? What is reflected in your eyes, your smile?

If I have the opportunity to say I’m 72, I do so—with some pride, I admit, I like being my age. The revelation is usually met with (fake, most likely) wide-eyed skepticism. “You don’t look 72!” they gush. Which is my hoped-for prompt: “This is what 72 looks like for me,” I say, challenging their stereotypes and their assumption that I will be happy not to look “my age.” In truth, people of any age don’t look a certain way. (Also, making comments on how someone looks rarely ever lands. Compliment their warm smile, their cute boots—aka, good taste—their ability to give a good hug.) Ashton Applewhite, in This Chair Rocks, suggests a step further: I’m 72. Why do you ask? Why does it matter?

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“We allow ourselves to believe that not being as fast or as busy as we used to be is some kind of human deficiency,” Joan Chittister, The Gift of Years.

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There’s no such thing as “age-appropriate” dress, activities, behavior. The central task, at any age, is to figure out what’s me-appropriate. I might tell my grandsons my 72-year-old self can’t run down that hill and jump over the log at the end like their eight- and ten-year-old selves were doing last November, much as I want to prove something when they shout “your turn, Gigi!” My internal thought being, “I’m too old.” Now that I think about it, it really wasn’t that I was too old to engage in trail running and jumping—after all, I hike regularly through three seasons of year—but that I was stiff from spending winter in the corner chair watching juncos and engaging in my winter superpower: napping. At that moment, at least, it wasn’t me-appropriate. If we don’t run and jump at 50, it may be because our body won’t allow it for myriad reasons, but at 70 there’s only one reason? We’re too old? We don’t all have the same abilities, but it doesn’t have to do simply with age. You don’t have to do it, maybe you can’t do it; but ask yourself, is your reasoning ageist?

Applewhite takes issue with the notion that older people who deserve admiration are those who look and behave like younger ones (she calls them olders, alongside youngers, feeling those are the only value-neutral terms). It is inspirational, she says (and often a product of privilege), and it’s also okay to sit on the porch. You do you, I’ll do me. It’s evidence of emotional well-being, a trait which increases with age. Put that in the positive pocket of your backpack!

I’ve not yet been told, “You look great, for your age!” but I’m sure the day will come. I’m ready with a response for that too: “You look great for your age too!” So sassy. And don’t get me started on people who say or write, “She is xx years young” (barf), or elder men calling me “young lady” (double barf). The very last thing I want to be is a younger again. (By the way, is it just my perception, or are ageist comments largely directed toward women, by men? And do men look in the mirror and say, “By God, I’m old!”? If you are a man reading this, let me know.)

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“Let your curiosity be greater than your fear,” Pema Chodron.

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Regardless of age, what if we all became an “Old Person in Training”? Applewhite suggests that if, at all ages, we began imagining ourselves as an “older,” even a very old, we could take the stigma from aging, bridging the personal and the political, as we consider a positive vision of our future self, and what it would take now to get us there.

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“Becoming an Old Person in Training is a political act, because it derails shame and self-loathing. It undoes the ‘otherness’ that powers ageism … as we reject demeaning stereotypes and claim our aging selves,” Ashton Applewhite, This Chair Rocks.

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I hope I can always own my age because of the years I have lived, the challenges I have met and conquered, the wisdom I have gained—and may only now recognize. A positive attitude, self-acceptance, self-love will change the world … at least my world. I honor the grooves in my face. I will keep wearing make-up from time to time, because … because I want to. And, more often, not wearing it, because I don’t want to.

P.S. I did run down the hill and jump over the log. And didn’t injure anything. Phew! I was awkward and slow. It made me feel old.

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When have you colluded in your own disenfranchisement?


Said things like, “I’m too old to do that,” or “I can’t keep up with younger people”? How could you reframe it?

Criticized yourself for showing signs of aging—like gray hair, wrinkles, or physical limitations—perpetuating the idea that getting older is something to be ashamed of?

When acknowledging how many years you’ve been friends with someone, do you cringe, or do you savor your shared history?

Do you lie about your age, or wince when you reveal it? Why, do you think?

Journal prompts or conversation starters:

Can you trace your ageism back to an earlier time in life?
Did you have positive role models of aging or negative ones as you were growing up?
What do you fear most about aging?
How do you feel about your biological age?
What is your list of negatives about growing older?
What is your list of positives about growing older?

I would love to hear your thoughts on being an older. Leave a comment! [A note about commenting on a post: Click the subscribe drop down arrow just above the comment section and provide your information (it’s private) to receive an email when someone replies to your comment. I, at least, will always reply!]

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Books in progress (slowly, because I prefer to read fiction, I’m just going to own that):

This Chair Rocks: A Manifesto Against Ageism, Ashton Applewhite
The Gift of Years: Growing Older Gracefully, Joan Chittister (I wonder, were she publishing this book today, rather than in 2008, would she re-subtitle it: Growing Older Like a Badass)
The Inner Work of Age: Shifting from Role to Soul, Connie Zweig, Ph.D.

And a Substack I like:

Creative Eldering, Stephanie Raffelock  https://bylinestephanie.substack.com

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