Think I need to hear platitudes and 'compliments' to feel good about myself? Think again.

The other day I was in one of those cavernous do-it-yourself home-improvement stores, looking for a ball-cock replacement for my toilet tank. I stopped at the front desk to inquire where I could find this particular item. The thirty-something clerk looked at me and then made an announcement over the loudspeaker, "Will someone from plumbing please escort this young lady to aisle 14?" 

I looked around to see who else was looking for the same thing that I was. Then I realized that the clerk meant me when he referred to this "young lady." In that brief moment, I suddenly became aware that it was I who was the object of his condescending description. My white hair, sagging jowls and liver spots must have been all that the clerk could see when he looked at me. He made me feel as though I were teetering on the brink of extinction and needed his encouragement to keep breathing. It must have seemed a miracle to him that I had been able to locate the store and hobble inside. 

Up until that moment I had been feeling well. I hadn't even given a thought to my age until I was reminded, in this insensitive way, that I was really getting old. I must have appeared so ancient, in fact, that it was necessary for the clerk to pretend that I was not old. 

Lurking behind such officious remarks is the implicit suggestion that one is unable to understand instructions or take care of oneself. In spite of my outward signs of aging, I manage to tie my own shoes and eat my oatmeal without assistance. I still have most of my own teeth. There are no restrictions on my driver's license. I have to use reading glasses only when I do The New York Times's Sunday crossword puzzle. I can also set the clock on my microwave and program my VCR to record one show while watching another. 

I use a computer and do research online. I understand enough of the rules of football and the intricacies of a baseball scorecard to be an enthusiastic fan of both sports. I took an extension course last year and received my master gardener's certificate. When I occasionally do forget something, it never occurs to me to plead old age as a reason. I just figure it is because my mind is crammed full of so many interesting things I can't remember them all. 

I was born back in the Great Depression and lived through the Dust Bowl days. The United States entered World War II on my 11th birthday. I survived the McCarthy era, saw my president assassinated and watched Watergate unfold on TV. I have lived through a progression of wars in Korea, Vietnam and Iraq, and protested against most of them.

There have been many good milestones in my life as well. I enjoy being with members of my growing family. I travel in this country and overseas. I still work hard at my writing career. Best of all is the fact that my heart still skips a beat when I see my college sweetheart, to whom I have been happily married for more than 55 years. 

I do not need to be reminded of how old I am by someone who thinks life and its pleasures come to a screeching halt at 60 or 70 or even 80. I don't need the false comfort of those who blithely assure me that I am a young lady. I know that the phrase is not a compliment. It is a euphemism for "old biddy," the female counterpart of "geezer." 

Even worse is when some well-meaning person, who is one fourth my age, trots out one of those time-worn platitudes to inform me that I am only as old as I feel. The fact of the matter is that on some mornings I feel a great deal older than I am in actual years. But, as some wag once said, that's to be preferred to the alternative. 

Yes, being young was wonderful, but why are so many people afraid of the word "old"? I don't mind the fact that I am an old woman. I confront my age every morning when I look in the mirror, but I don't feel the need to be nipped and tucked, lifted or sucked. What I see is what I want to live with. I have been around for more than three quarters of a century. That is a long time, but it is OK with me. There is a story behind each and every wrinkle and laugh line. I don't mind the passage of time—that is, I don't mind it until someone, embarrassed or frightened by the thought of aging, tries to convince me that I am not old by calling me "young lady."

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