Today is my 38th birthday, and in honor of the occasion, I want to write about growing old surrounded by the Cult of Eternal Youth.

Several months ago, my friend Ginger and I were discussing whether it is necessary to like a character in order to like the book or movie he figures in. At the time, I think we were discussing Faulkner’s If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem, a book I loved, even as I found Charlotte to be unappealing and Harry to be completely spineless, without character and without pride. Despicable, both of them, but the novel was brilliant and beautiful. Yet we were both sure that sometimes it is impossible to enjoy a work if you despise the characters.

That’s when High Fidelity came up. I found the John Cusack character, Rob Gordon, completely loathsome. He was immature, incapable of a stable relationship, self-absorbed, and irresponsible. And on top of it all, he was more than 30 years old, embarked on a period of his life where most guys manage somehow to have their shit together. I couldn’t enjoy the movie, because its hero was someone I would avoid in real life.

So why did I enjoy If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem but not High Fidelity? I don’t think this is a complete answer, but it’s because Nick Hornby clearly intends for me to like Rob Gordon. I’m supposed to think it’s cute and amusing and sort of pathetic (but in an attractive way) that Rob is such a loser. Well, I didn’t find it cute – I found it repulsive. The only thing that got me through the movie was some sort of vague hope that Rob would grow up. Is that too much to ask of a guy in his thirties?

And that got me thinking about the Cult of Youth. There’s no doubt our culture worships Youth. The evidence is everywhere. Our media images are of men and women in their teens and twenties. But that’s not all. We are expected to lie, humorously, about our ages, as happened yesterday when a coworker who is my age and knows it, asked me if I was turning 29. We’re supposed to be flattered when a liquor store clerk or bartender cards us, in spite of the lines around our eyes and the generous sprinkling of gray in our hair. (Worse, there is a drugstore in my neighborhood where you can’t buy cigarettes unless a manager sells them to you.  This irritates me, because I have to wait in line behind the poor smoker while the manager drags her patootie up to the front of the store.  I’m pretty anti-smoking, but I have my limits.  But I digress.)  Calling someone “old” is an insult, and “elderly” isn’t much better. We’re supposed to refer to people over a certain age as senior citizens, which is a stupid term unless you are the Social Security Administration or have some other reason to care whether the person is a citizen, or just seniors, which calls up images of 18-year-olds graduating from high school or 22-year-olds graduating from college. We celebrate our fortieth birthdays with black balloons and sympathy cards. Middle age used to begin in the 30s, then in the 40s, and now people resist the label until the 50s. (There is some justification for this last, as we are living longer.)

The flip side of the Idolization of Youth, it seems to me, is the Admiration of Immaturity. This is the reason Nick Hornby can write a book and movie like High Fidelity and find wide acceptance of it. (I am the only person I know who hated the movie.) It would be one thing if we loved the beauty of youth so much that we are willing merely to forgive its foibles. But it seems to me that High Fidelity is evidence that we have passed into a kind of collective insanity where we glorify, rather than merely tolerating, the downside of youth. And imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, we wish to emulate all of youth, even its avoidance of commitment, lack of experience, inability to form stable relationships, and spiritual and social retardation.  Please note that these characteristics are not annoying or bad in a 21-year-old;  they are normal for that developmental stage.  In a 33-year-old, though, they speak of an arrested development that is, in the most generous term I can come up with, pitiable.

Me, I wouldn’t be 21 again for the world. I wouldn’t trade anything for my stable marriage, my financial security, my experience in business, and the wisdom gained by being knocked around a bit by the world. I think my gray hairs are kind of pretty. I like the little smile lines around my eyes, and I love the ones around RHB’s eyes. I wish I hadn’t put on so much weight, and it’s dismaying that perimenopause seems to have started so early for me, but I love being 38, and I intend to brag about it. Or, as Ginger’s mother said, It’s so nice to have birthdays! The more birthdays you have, the longer you live.

And so, as I creep ever closer to forty, here is my Manifesto on Growing Older.

• Dear friends, don’t joke with me about being 21, or 29. You know damn well I’m not, and now you know damn well I don’t want to be.
• Liquor store clerks everywhere, if your boss requires you to card everyone who is still breathing, I will accept that. Don’t expect me to be flattered, though. Don’t pretend you actually think I’m under 21, or even under 30. Think for a moment what that means – do you really believe that I’m some stupid 20-year-old dumb enough to try buy alcohol illegally? This is a double insult – you are pretending that I’m a child, and you are pretending that I’m stupid. Just look at my damn ID and let me get on with buying that $20 bottle of wine that no 20-year-old would dream of blowing a wad on.  If I were 20 and had $20, I’d be buying a case or two of Bud.
• If I am not exactly Middle Aged yet, I am creeping toward it. I’m glad. Stop telling me you think I’m young. This goes for people who are a lot older than me, too.  Sure, I’m younger than you, but that does not make me a Callow Youth.  It’s insulting.  Stop it.
• You all have a couple of decades to practice this one, so limber up – unless I complete a second four-year bachelor’s degree, I will never be a senior again. So when the grays start outnumbering the dark hairs, don’t start calling me a senior unless you want a punch in the mouth. (I will be the kind of feisty old lady that punches people in the mouth.)
• Speaking of grays, I stopped dying my hair when I noticed a few silver threads. I think they’re cool, so don’t expect me to dye them.  And I hope someone gives me a stern talking to if I ever decide to become Old and Blonde.
• As far as skin goes, I am delighted that my skin is thinner and drier than it used to be.  It means my acne is finally under control.  If it gives me some cute little smile lines, so be it.
• And, to assure everyone that I am not any more well-adjusted than anyone else, I will admit to one insecurity about growing old.  It goes like this:  Dear God, please don’t let me lose my teeth before I retire!

So this is me, telling you, all of you, whoever you are, whether you are friends or family or strangers who have stumbled on my blog – Happy 38th Birthday to Psipsina!  It’s nice to be a grownup.