Written by Brie
January 28th, 2008

I detest being asked how old I am. I understand that most women don’t like this question but for different reasons.

Today, I mentioned that I can’t seem to let go of my high-school jeans. They don’t come anywhere close to fitting me anymore and likely never will (despite the compliments I’ve been receiving on my weight loss recently), but I can’t donate them or throw them away. The woman across from me scoffed a bit as she said, “They wouldn’t be in style anymore.”

My face told her something. I can’t quite tell you what, but she proceeded to look at me questioningly. Either my face said my jeans are older than yours, I had better style than any high schooler should hope to have, or it said that she had no clue just how young I am.

Mind you, this is one of the few women at work with children anywhere close in age to mine. (She has a 5 year old and a two year old.) She looked me up and down and asked me how old I was.

I gave my usual answer of “I don’t like to answer that.” She took it to mean that I was older than my appearance.

“It can’t be that bad. I’m nearly 40.” (This woman also got a mini-van for Christmas. I think it was worse for her than it was for me.)

My phone started to ring, and I said, as I turned away, “I’m 27.” I think she thinks I think I’m old at 27. (Here’s a second to parse that one.)

Rather, I know I’m not taken seriously most of the time by my older co-workers (I’m a mother and therefore I am not as dedicated to work), and I’d prefer my age didn’t play into that even more.

So, beware of the answer you may get to “How old are you?” And stop asking me already.

Posted in Personal
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