You know how the older we get, the more invisible we are to the world around us? (Men: the phenomenon is real, just cuz you don’t experience it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Like menstrual cramps. Hot flashes. Corporate boardroom. Ignored at the doctor’s. The list is endless.)
We gotta stop that.
And yet, I’m guilty, and you are probably too, of the reverse.
The older we are, the more dismissive we tend to be towards those younger. Than us.
So, we gotta stop that too.
That’s my advice, slapped silly into my conscience by a young-un editor, completely exasperated when writer after writer entered her pitch session only to dismiss her aptly because we were old enough to be her … mom … dad … grandparent … whatever.
By the time it was my turn, she had had it.
We, the older-than-she crowd, entered her office confidently, slid in across the desk for our 10-minute timeslot, to pitch an idea and receive (grand prize) a request for a sample chapter, or (runner up) referral to a different publisher, and/or (still quite valuable) perhaps some professional constructive criticism.
There was a line at the door, and first impressions mattered, and she wasn’t having any of it from writers of a certain age.
One at a time we entered, scootched up close to the desk, butt-cheeks perched on the edge of the seat, our baby manuscript neatly caccooned in a folder on our lap, wishing to be asked for more. Apparently, many of us, those who looked like me, greeted this particular editor and said, before beginning our pitch, “Wow, I’m old enough to be your.…”
Ouch.
Maybe it’s nerves, or perhaps we think it’s an ice-breaker, but it’s not.
This young editor stared me down. “Please.” It was declarative. “Don’t,” she huffed, shaking her head. “I’m just so sick of this.”
I hadn’t said anything, but my eyes probably told the story.
“You want to know how old I am? I’ll tell you: I’m old enough to hold your career in my hands. That’s how old. Pitch.”
She was right.
I hate as I’ve become older, I’m disappearing like an Etch-A-Sketch of who I used to be.
But I’m guilty as well: erasing young people, diminishing their skills and immense talents and qualifications just because they’re not as old as I think they should be.
Think baby dentist. Ob/gyn not old enough to drive. Cop with peach fuzz. Bartender too young to drink.
I’m wrong to judge Generation whatever — whatever’s not mine. I bet you’ve been wrong too, and we’ve got to stop the ageism that exists at both ends of the candle.
But before we do, one more complaint, and with it comes a piece of advice you’re gonna wanna hear: it’s for all ages, but especially my ages, and the ages yet to come.
Let’s stop babytalking old people
I hate how we talk to old people like they’re little kids.
“Honey. Sweetie. Young Lady. Aren’t you just so adorable! Who do we have here today?”
Like it’s kindergarten show ‘n tell.
It’s not just a waitress attempting to create a bigger tip. Or Eunice as she delivers my bagel with a level of intimacy I both appreciate and crave. So Eunice at the bagel shop gets a pass. (IYKYNK)
As does the gas station lady with the bright red lipstick, who gives me a tearful hug when she tries to give a cookie, looking for dog in the back seat, and I tell her, sadly, the dog’s dead.
They can call me honey. I like it.
A lot.
Sometimes such terms of endearment make me feel human. Seen. Loved.
But more often than not, assuming a level of intimacy not yet earned makes me cringe.
And sometimes, downright violent.
Confusing, I know, but there’s a long list of others who, if they call me honey or sweetie, I might crawl through the driver’s side window and throat punch them. And if they call my mom, or aunt, or even my scoliosis-riddled neighbor with his walker and Navy Veteran hat – if they call them honey or sweetie within earshot, I want to whip out their degrees from MIT or CVs the length of my arm, vast accomplishments that demand respect and admiration far more than a proverbial, condescending pat on the head.
Think bank tellers, salespeople at Macy’s, ushers, mechanics, physicians, professors, lawyers, telemarketers, politicians, cops, and financial consultants. These people are handling my 401k, my pap smear, and yet they literally or figuratively pat me on the head and tell me, “nothing to worry about,”
“Honey.”
Equal opportunity insultation.
When I was spending time with my favorite aunt in and out of the oncologist du jour, while we maneuvered the clusterfuck that is cancer, medical staff directed all questions to me – while SHE’S SITTING RIGHT THERE. Fully conversational, cognitive abilities sharp, completely with it, and yet all but erased by the very people treating her.
I’d glare at the doctor or nurse or rad tech or insert-speciality-here and indiscreetly rub my index finger under my nose, while darting my eyes from doctor to patient, doctor to patient, pointing to the person they SHOULD be speaking to, who is not me.
I’m there as the fly on the wall to make sure she’s spoken to directly, to help navigate meds and scheduling, keep notes, transport her to and from, and support her as the world she knows tilts off its axis.
Don’t mistake age for senility, or age for intellect or lack thereof.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” is the response when I call it to their attention. More often than not (if not every fricking time).
YOU’RE GONNA WANNA WRITE THIS DOWN
My own mom, who gave me very little growing up, and even less as an adult, did share this epitaph-worthy wisdom to counter well-meaning yet condescending insults.
She delivered it oh-so-directly, with no emotion, and shocked the shit out of the rheumatologist attempting to evaluate her range of motion at the time. “Good job, Honey,” he said. Once. Only once.
I always attribute this to her, my mom, but she insisted it’s not hers to claim – she got it from one of her older friends, probably when she was first navigating the honey stage of life. (I value her respect for intellectual property.)
Trust me, you’re going to want to write down this tattoo-worthy declaration:
“Unless you feed me, fund me, or fuck me, don’t call me honey.”
Which might be the best piece of advice ever. Like ever. It should be shared and translated for every public-facing employee in the universe, and beyond.
You good with that? Honey?
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