W
When I was 14 years old, someone mistook me for the mother of my nine-year-old sister. It was an interesting situation, as it made me ponder whether I truly appeared twice my actual age. What struck me the most was the absence of condescension typically directed at teenage mothers. This person saw me as a mature adult who had responsibly started a family at an appropriate time, placing me conservatively at 30 years old.
This peculiar encounter served as the background for another bewildering experience later that year. I accompanied my mother, a set designer, to her job on the set of a children’s drama. The task at hand was transforming the scenery to make it seem like spring. Part of this involved the removal of cherries from trees and replacing them with fake carnations to emulate blossoms. It wasn’t exactly glamorous work for a 14-year-old, but someone had to do it. At the end of the day, when I needed a ride back to the train station, the only available option was a 16-meter articulated lorry. I arrived at Sheringham in this massive vehicle, only to be asked by the ticket office attendant to move it as it was obstructing everything. It seemed absurd for someone to assume I was old enough to have a heavy goods vehicle license at such a young age.
This dilemma of appearing older than my actual age lingered throughout my teenage years. I was once mistaken for a teacher while wearing my school uniform. However, while my peers fretted over signs of aging and the weight of life-altering decisions in their twenties, I relished the process of getting older. Every passing year brought me closer to the age people assumed I already was. By my mid twenties, people were convinced I was a 30-year-old in denial. I vividly remember a colleague questioning the authenticity of my age, suggesting it may have been tweaked. Although I outwardly expressed my frustrations about gender biases, inside I secretly celebrated that the discrepancy was only a matter of a few years. At least they didn’t question whether I obtained my age through a convoluted fairytale involving a princess with magical hair and an elixir.
There have been ups and downs in this age guessing game. Someone on Wikipedia insists I was born in 1963, even though I repeatedly correct it to 1973. I once broke down on a motorway at the age of 31 with my siblings and our dog. The breakdown service technician suggested prioritizing the safety of the kids over the dog. Instead of responding normally, I questioned whether he considered these adults, one of whom was older than me and one who had a mustache, to be my biological children. Overall, these mistakes have become fewer and less significant as time goes on. Some may still assume I took GCSEs instead of O-levels or believe I am eligible for a mammogram, but these errors no longer bother me.
Now that I’ve reached the age of 50, I can finally relax knowing that nobody will mistake me for being 100 years old. It’s been quite a journey, and while there have been moments of confusion and frustration, I’ve come to appreciate the unique perspective this experience has given me.
-
Zoe Williams is a columnist for The Guardian.
-
Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here.
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
