The Old Person Club

I was filling out a questionnaire with a young woman the other day – on it were the usual questions; name, address, age group. It was a regular fill-in the blank survey, the type data collecting organizations like to use to target various products and services. I like to be honest with my answers, data isn’t accurate if you’re not. They aren’t challenging questions but lately I’ve noticed there are some irritating ones.

I’m good with things like address and phone number – we’ve had the same ones for thirty years. Age group, however, is a bit personal and a bit of a reality check for us who are trying to fudge it.  On this particular questionnaire the age groupings were generous and increased in five year increments – 60-64, 65-69 – so there was a bit of fudging room if you’re inching toward the top of the increment, but not much.

Although we were filling the questionnaire out in my own foyer, with only my husband and dogs present to witness the confession, the young lady was discreet when it came to the inevitable age question. She leaned toward me and pointed to her data collecting device like she was about to disclose a secret. I’m of an age where I’m about to jump an increment so I hesitated for a moment before I pointed to my group, 60-64.

The young woman looked up from her device and smiled. “You don’t look it,” she said.
I acknowledged her compliment with the usual response. “You’re too kind”.
“No, really,” she said, looking me in the eyes. “I like meeting cool old people.”

Cool old people.

Apparently I’m a cool old person. I wondered if I should be flattered or offended. The ‘cool’ part is something I can live with – be happy about even. But ‘old person’? The designation cut me right to the quick. If I disliked the age question before, I positively loathe it now. I’m years away from ‘old’, right?

This young woman was in her early twenties, younger than my youngest child by a decade. I’m guessing she thought she was being charming, friendly – she would have no idea how women of my age feel about being considered old. Sixty-four probably seems positively ancient to her – miles away. But the reality is, I was twenty-four last Tuesday – I blinked and was catapulted forty years into the future. This ‘old’ thing snuck up on me.

The old person club has always been reserved for people of the older generation, you know, the really old people. When I was growing up I considered my grandmothers ‘old’. My parents … well, parents are parents, I never really thought about their age when I was young, they were the authority, the law. As I grew older, and my grandmother’s generation disappeared, people my parents’ age started to get initiated into the club. They’d paid their dues; their hair had turned grey, their faces were creased – they belonged in the club. I’m sure they didn’t mind, the requirements had been met, they were ready for their designation. I am not.

The years march forward even as we drag our heels. Birthdays accumulate and designations change. This is reality. We can try to fight the symptoms and mask the evidence but there is only one way to actually avoid joining the old person club — stop filling out questionnaires! I’ve learned my lesson.