Starting Over at 60 blog
I was blindfolded and being led out of my own house. Flanked on either side by two people, I didn’t know what was going on. I could feel my heart beat faster. My breathing sped up, too. I heard shuffling all around me.
Suddenly, a loud “woooo” sounded from… what was it, a kazoo? “Surprise!”
My sister and soon-to-be husband had snuck around for weeks, inviting friends and colleagues to celebrate my Big 5-0 with a surprise birthday party. They had distracted me with various errands while they prepared birthday dinner and festooned the yard with balloons and twinkling lights. When I arrived home, thinking we’d have a small family dinner, they blindfolded me and led me to the back porch.
All of my friends and favorite colleagues were wedged in my small, picket-fenced backyard. We ate grilled steaks, Greek salad and lemon potatoes, some of my favorite foods. We sat under our garlanded gazebo while I opened presents.
I wore a tiara spelling, “Fifty & Fab,” and held an extra-large wine glass with the same words to toast my new decade. They had gotten an enormous, elaborately-decorated carrot cake from our favorite Italian bakery. Sitting partly on the coffee table and partly on my knees, it almost took up my entire lap. The cake glowed with fifty candles, one for every year of life, plus one more to “grow on.” After a raucous, off-key “Happy Birthday” song, I blew out the candles. The cell phone camera lights flashed, and I was caught in the usual unflattering picture of puffed cheeks, wide eyes and puckered lips. Another decade down, more than half of life gone, now in the age downslide of life. But I was just getting started.
I didn’t think much of this milestone until I posted the pictures on Facebook. Soon, comments from friends and colleagues flooded my post. While friends knew how old I was, colleagues did not. I was surprised how many people remarked on my age. “Wow, 50.” “No way, 50.” “ I thought you were 40!” “You look amazing.” “I thought I was older than you,” a gray-haired paunchy man said. I thought he was older, too.
Suddenly, I realized: few at work had known my age. I hadn’t intentionally hidden it. I wasn’t ashamed of growing older. I always joked— “Life only moves in one direction.”
This innocent post turned out to be an admission. I was older than my colleagues knew. I was older than I looked. I was proud of that. Lots of exercise, a self-care regimen, a youthful attitude, a commitment to lifelong learning and continual personal growth— Surely these healthy habits had helped me maintain youth. If I looked and acted younger, what did age matter?
After my 50th birthday Facebook post, I noticed more interest in women’s ages. No one had asked my age or female friends’ and colleagues’ ages before. Now, many of them navigated curiousity about their career plans “until retirement.” I brushed these questions off with sarcasm— “Cowgirls don’t get old; their boots get softer”— a downhome deflection for a citified country girl. But these queries alerted me. I adopted a rigorous “stay young” regimen. I exercised harder, spent thousands on Botox and fillers and erased online references to my age or graduation years. If someone did ask my age, I tried not to answer. I usually asked a question in return because I found people loved talking about themselves. Each time I was asked, however, I wondered: Does a man get these questions? I personally had never asked the age of any male or female colleague.
At the time, I had almost two decades of a career ahead of me. These questions were just curiosity, similar to the way we handle people losing weight. Afraid of offending the shrinking person, we rarely ask, “how much weight have you lost?”— although there’s always the bold person who does. But we do ask someone else, “Has she lost weight?” This can begin the behind-the-scenes whispers. Age is the same way. Avoiding the taboo of a direct question, side conversations sprout.
My female colleagues shared anxiety around aging. Many chose to retire or leave to pursue other interests, depending on their financial preparedness. I saw such a difference between the men and women, however. None of the men were concerned. They talked about working into their 70s, and many did. This is consistent with the data showing that men’s employment does not begin to decline until they are almost 70. It seemed to me that women received culturally different messages about aging. Men could work as long as they wanted; women focused on offsetting or hiding their age in various ways so they could continue working.
I was confident my consistent high performance was a magical force. I had combined expertise in certain areas with an ability to simplify complex subjects. After a presentation one time, an executive consultant, slightly older than me, pulled me aside. He gave me one of the greatest compliments of my career. He said, “I want you when I go into battle.” I saw this as encouraging. This consultant had influence. He clearly thought I was a strong presenter and speaker, a good and courageous leader. His backing supported value in my work.
I witnessed age impacting my female friends who worked at other companies. One friend was let go after unwittingly training her younger successor. She was now trying to start a consulting business. Another was let go when a younger male with less skill and no history of meeting revenue goals was chosen instead of her. She was able to negotiate a good severance package; however, at 65, her professional career was over. She couldn’t find another job. Another received the first negative review of her career. She was bewildered because her performance had remained steady. And yet another had her role rewritten, removing her oversight of a large book of business. She now was asked to mentor younger, less experienced employees who were handed her previous responsibilities.
No matter where I looked, women seemed at risk the closer they got to 60. Most of these women were 57-59 years of age, at the height of successful, well-paid, careers. What was going on? Why were they suddenly out of work?
It’s hard to ignore such a trend, anecdotal as it may seem. This trend, however, is based on statistics that show decreasing numbers of women working as they age. I was watching these numbers play out in real time. Was it gender- or age-related? Or was it the intersection of both? It’s impossible to unwind being a woman and being a woman who is growing older.
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