Last night the Significant Other and I went to eat out at our favorite Greek restaurant.
Our food service attendant was a cute, chatty girl who midway through our meal sauntered over to our table and asked, “Excuse me, but my coworkers and I were wondering if it’s okay to ask you how old you are.”
Seriously, does this happen to any of you?
I was a little irritated to have to interrupt my taste buds from savoring the forkful of “gyros tyganaki” I had just put in my mouth to answer her question.
However, irritation was quickly replaced by panic at the thought that I was being considered for the senior citizen discount.
Then I heard her say, “I hope it’s not rude, but you’re just so pretty, the other girls and I are placing bets on how old you are and how old your husband is.”
Leave it to the Greeks to brazenly admit to a customer the reasons for their behavior.
At that point I had no trouble informing her that I was, ahem, thirty-four.
(Peals of laughter from the Significant Other)
“Don’t you mean forty-four, dear?”
(Swift, sharp kick to the shin under the table. Grunt palpably heard)
“I’m not identifying YOUR age, ‘dear,’ I’m identifying mine.”
(Redirecting myself to the waitress) “And Honey, tell your colleagues he’s nearing fifty.”
(Sounds heard from the Significant Other choking on house wine).
“Seriously, Bella?” He looks at the girl and says, “That’s not true and her real age is…”
He looks at me and catches sight of
the smoke coming out of my ears and fire burning in my eyes my left raised eyebrow and right index finger, poised delicately on my chin.
(He continues) “Her real age is, ahem, thirty-four.”
I smile in satisfaction and we carry on with our meal as if nothing had happened.
This little “scene” serves to remind me of how we live in an “age-conscious” society.
Women no longer strive to age gracefully. Instead, they arm themselves with Botox and plastic surgery; intent on fighting the aging process with their lives, if necessary.
And that’s because sadly, most people believe that aging robs you of your beauty.
If you don’t believe me, think of the times you’ve heard someone say, “She must’ve been beautiful when she was young,” when referring to an older woman; as is being older automatically robbed her of her beauty.
That’s why in circumstances like the one in the Greek restaurant, I always refer back to my nana’s sage advice.
I’ll share that with you today and in return, I only ask that you share it with someone else.
All you have to do is think back to the happiest time of your life; the time you felt your sexiest, your smartest, your most productive, or any other time you’re proud of.
How old were you then?
Then that’s your age.
For me, the greatest time of my life was when I was thirty-four.
And come hell or high water, that’s how old I’ll be forever.
And I dare the Significant Other or anyone to say otherwise.