With Age Comes Attitude

Written by Anika Henrikson

A few weeks ago, I celebrated a birthday. I turned 27.

When I told well-wishers my new age, I was treated to a variety of responses.

I got a “you're so old” from a freckle-faced 8-year-old. The high school crowd seemed to be impressed on some level (although they're impressed with a gift card to Hot Topic, so I don't know how to feel about that). My parents, both in their 50s, were pretty low-key about the whole affair, save for my mom emailing me a video of a hamster singing a birthday tune. I get the feeling their blasé attitude came mostly out of a desire to forget they have a daughter who's nearing 30. I heard a “we're ooold” from my 31-year-old cousin. My grandma said I was still a “baby.”

Folks in their mid-to-late-30s and those in their 40s reacted strangely, though. There were grunts, groans, sarcastic laughs, and other snarky noises emitted. Upon hearing my age, a few people in this age bracket produced a sound not unlike the one made when a bug flies down your throat; that sort of spurting, choking reaction. It was like “27” was a cue for them to go into anaphylactic shock. Only after they recovered could they reluctantly say “happy birthday.”

It's not that they appeared insincere in their wish for me to have a nice birthday (unless they were?), but my relatively young age reminded them they were not in their 20s anymore. Apparently, this was some sort of shortcoming on my part. (If they want someone to blame for my being 27, they should point the finger at my parents, as I had very little to do with it.) But, no, I was “only” 27 and hadn't achieved the level of maturity, responsibility, and tact that comes from being 36...or 40...or 47.

It was as if my age was eliciting both pity and disgust from people in their 30s and 40s. Needless to say, I found these reactions strange. I've always known that age is relative, but now that I'm at an age where I feel pretty sure of myself and my life choices, it came as a surprise to suddenly feel as though I have a long ways to go to get to that magic land called “adulthood.”

After all...

I learned to read at a young age.

I also dance like a champion...and, for some reason, like an Egyptian.

I clap politely for cake.

I also know how to whip up tasty treats in the kitchen.

I sit like a lady (even when sitting so close to my dad's "Cosby sweater").

I love animals and can construct rudimentary kennels for them out of cardboard boxes.

Again...I'm a skilled dancer. That can't be overstated.

Also, I'm trained in the fine art of cantaloupe balancing.

And do you know anyone else who can fish for rainbow trout in jelly shoes?

I mean, look at those things! It's a wonder I didn't get a rogue fishhook in my foot. Then again, kids born in the '80s grew up tough. We had to contend with Reaganomics and gratuitous shots of Bruce Springsteen's be-jeaned butt, for cryin' out loud.

So while I'm not quite rounding the bases toward home plate (30), I'm at least on deck. All in all, there's a lot to be proud of. So the next time someone older scoffs at my age, I'll ask them to walk a mile in my cheap plastic sandals.

Because with age comes wisdom...and a better fashion sense.