Age & the #

If I were asked “what does being old—er mean to you?”, I’d say it’s having most of the people you see in the street be either same age or younger than you. The reverse used to be true when I was a teenager (and in most of my early 20s)! Everybody else was older, back then. And I was one of those smart little things who was called over whenever there was a problem with the “PC monster” (which everybody believed was either an Ali-Amoudi handiwork or related to the fatal number 666; or a bit of both), whose smart little saying created mirth and all sorts of “hukata”s; whose errors were easy to fix, and were always forgiven.

Nowadays…..not so much :-).

Trousers & young-er people! That’s all you seem to be seeing these days. I’m talking about the reality in streets, ofcourse. When it comes to the office, it’s a different story. The exact opposite, even. Not, unfortunately, seeing same age or older people abounding. It’s rather seeing all those older, same age and sometimes younger folks suddenly growing more young, if the number can tell you anything, by the day! 35+s, going 32. 32’s going 28. 28s holding onto their 28 years old “record” for as long as 4 consecutive years (as in “28 years old – the sequel” kind of thing) And every woman, except for precious few, generally lying about her age.

This tendency of my colleagues (and some of my fellow university students) of going younger by the day, and not metaphorically, is more noticeable among those that are single. The longer a colleague remained single, it seems, the more the chances are of her age bar taking a dive. It’s like they are trying to build an age “giDib” until that significant “he” finds his way into their lives. Ket’ro maQoyet, gedibo meyaz, edme maQor :-). Trying to hold the “flood” at bay to save as much “soil” as possible, to use a farming language (& no “shimuut” intended).

For those of you wondering, or “wuust awaQi negn baay”:-):- I’ve been a single gal waiting for the one to come knocking, too, true! (although I never referred to him as “the one”, and never thought there was only one person for me, or you. There are as many ‘ones’ out there as you are willing to work at it with. Some deserving, others not that much!). But never lied about my age even when my husband-to-be was a lot of years younger than me. Wait a minute! I have lied about his age :-)).

There is no doubt of truth existing to the theory that people who lie about their age, just as people who cheat on their grades and guys who show off their boss’s car as their own (and let’s not forget women who get pregnant so object of affection could decide to tie the knot… on himself?! :-)) a feeling of shame is involved. For the single gal who has hit 30 with no prospect of walking down the isle, it may be the embarrassment of having not accomplished the urban “Siket” myth every girl is certain she is adorable enough to achieve- “adorable” being the operative word: of getting married at 25, bearing a boy and a girl before turning 32, and being a grandma before you retire (if not before menopause sets in). Age, after all, is more than a number! It is a tool by which your “success” and “failures” are measured. (As the many delusions of my many relatives and friends who couldn’t understand why i didn’t get married before I did could bear witness for). So the more unsuccessful to score you feel in the various fields of life you are expected to score, the younger you try to remain hoping when you finally get there, your age would catch up with you too.

Nothing wrong or malicious about it, either! For, after all, who hasn’t told a little white lie about something they wish they could have changed about their lives were they [more] in control of their fate?! But at the end of the day, after having made somebody else’s success their own and shown off either the car or the husband, do these people shamefacedly wish if the world hasn’t twisted their arm so hard that they have to lie about what they are capable of “achieving” or “not achieving” (and if it can even be called *that*)… ATLEAST to themselves?! Or do they pat their backs for having successfully pulled it off and, feeling younger/smarter/more loved, go to [a peaceful] sleep (with the father of their unborn baby’s hand on their little bump)?

More importantly, is it worth it?