Seventy-eight years old. The word sticks. It carries weight. Heft. For my generation, being “old” feels like a sentence passed without a trial.
But look at the alternative. Death. The great void. When that looms close enough to touch, surviving another birthday isn’t just luck—it’s a win.
So I don’t hide.
I volunteer my age. Every time. People flinch. They stumble. Social etiquette screams at them to look away.
Don’t you dare.
Why?
Because hiding your years implies shame. It suggests that aging is something dirty, something to be swept under the rug like a dead rat. Euphemisms are liars. Words like senior. Mature. Golden. They sound polite. They feel like lies.
I prefer “old.” It’s sharp. Clear. Accurate.
My mother never said how old she was. She cared about her look. Chic. Jaunty. I recall a memory, sharp as glass. A new doctor praised her shape “for her age.” My mom’s grin could cut stone. “He doesn’t know my age,” she said. She won the game. She lived to 98.
By the end? She was bragging.
That’s the shift. The power move. When you own it, it becomes an asset.
I run. Not fast, but steady. The trophies are easy. Why? Because there are almost no one in my age group at 5k races. Sometimes I’m the only woman in the field. It’s less of a sport and more of a demographic miracle.
When I turn 80—which happens in two years—finishing the run will be the feat. The medal is secondary.
Octogenarian. Say it out loud.
It has a certain ring. Power. Octogenarians report that doing basic things draws awe now. Driving at night. Selling a house. Keeping a website alive. These mundane acts become miracles of endurance.
If I reach 90? Health intact? I expect reverence. Or at least the fawning attention my mother received from my sons. I was jealous of that. Now? It’s a precedent. I look forward to my granddaughters swarming around me.
Let’s fix the language.
“Old” should be neutral. Just a number. Over 70. Done. Not a critique. Not a sign of decay. An honorific? Sure. Why not.
Would an “old lady” paraglide? Get her body painted nude? Stand on dolphin noses? Probably not.
But an old person? Maybe.
We use language to change culture. Look at queer. Look at hippie. Terms of abuse reclaimed as badges of honor. Fat. Same story. We strip the poison from the word by swallowing it ourselves.
Ageism thrives in silence. Kill it with noise. Use the word. Loudly. With attitude.
I’m not just old. I’m wiser. I know things you don’t. I have seen the wheel turn more times than you have blinked.
And then there’s elder.
Elder implies wisdom. Duty.
Take Third Act. Bill McKibben’s crew. Activists over 60 fighting climate change. Their motto: Old and Bold. Handcuffed. Led to police vans. Standing in streets against Trump. The resistance isn’t young anymore. It’s gray. It’s us. Boomers.
Hair matters, too.
Look around Manhattan. Half my friends let the gray grow in. One had white hair at 45—I assumed she was a platinum blonde for years. Elegant women pass on the street. A silent nod. We see each other. We accept it.
Is it all easy? No.
Money helps. Health helps. Luck? Essential.
But if you get it right, this stage of life is weirdly beautiful. Fewer rules. Fewer bosses. A strange freedom.
A friend skis every weekday using a senior discount pass. Just because he can.
A 74-year-old drives 30 miles for one hour with her granddaughter.
A man my age does duathlons in other countries.
Boredom? Not a chance.
Retirees reinvent themselves constantly. A nanny becomes a health coach. A camera operator sculpts award-winning art. A PR guy writes children’s books.
This isn’t decline. It’s age positivity.
Middle-aged readers: stop fearing this. Look forward to it.
We boomers? We hold the power. Landon Y. Jones called us a “bulge in the snake.” We move through society with mass and weight. We shaped the world we broke.
Now we fix the narrative.
We show that aging is a privilege. A victory lap.
Start speaking the word. Old. Say it. Say it with pride. Say it until they forget it hurts.
