There’s an old saying that a lady never reveals her age—women are meant to be coy, mysterious, forever keeping others guessing. Though this notion feels outdated, the sentiment still lingers. As a reporter, I often face an uncomfortable moment when asking someone their age.
Men usually take it in stride, sometimes joking or pretending to tally up the years. Women, on the other hand, often react defensively. Some refuse to answer outright or accuse me of rudeness, as if I’ve disrupted a delicate secret. Others respond with humor tinged with sorrow, saying things like “I’m too old” or “I’m on the wrong side of 40.” It’s heartbreaking—why should anyone’s value expire at a certain age?
Hosts Amanda Montell and Isa Medina of the podcast Sounds Like A Cult put it poignantly: “In the 00s, women fought to exist beyond narrow standards of thinness and to be three-dimensional. In the 20s, women fight for the right to have bodies that age through time.” This truth resonates. I dread asking “the age question” to women, but sometimes it matters—say, when a skateboarder pulls off a Guinness World Record. Age shapes how we perceive achievements, challenges, crimes, and celebrations. Journalistic basics ask for a name, profession, and yes, age.
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Even accomplished public figures and glass-ceiling shatterers sometimes respond to age questions with defensiveness. Our culture often equates aging with loss, not growth.
The 1976 film Logan’s Run imagined a dystopia where people were culled at 30—a chilling metaphor. Yet, some corners online paint a harsher reality. In the so-called “Manosphere,” there’s talk of “The Wall,” suggesting women over 25 become worthless—a cruel, misogynistic myth.
Women themselves sometimes reinforce this shame around aging, recoiling from wrinkles and milestones instead of celebrating them. What if we saw each birthday as a new achievement, a life high-score to be proud of?
I hold my own contradictions. I’m 27, and the photo on this site is airbrushed to hide my laugh and frown lines—these lines tell stories of joy, thought, and experience. And yet I hesitate to let them be seen. I know I won’t be young forever, and that truth stings.
For now, “How old are you?” feels like a loaded question—maybe it can be rude, but it shouldn’t be. We get about 80 years on this planet, give or take, and every single one matters.