2008 Woodie Awards
Ducky bibs and the age-old question of age
Jennifer McCafferty '07
Issue date: 9/21/06 Section: Portfolio
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I think I was about seven years old when I came to the conclusion that 20 was old, and anything past that was ancient.
This breakthrough occurred while playing Barbies with Jenna, my neighbor, who had asked how old my Barbie was. In the end, I decided that she was 16 since, and according to my Disney-nourished mind, 16 was the equivalent of a grown-up, but not so old that her hair would turn gray (as I imagined instantly happened as soon as you turned 20).
Of course, my perception of what was old changed as I aged. "Oldness" became calculated by behavior more than numbers. When I was in high school, for instance, you were old if you were unwilling to buy the cheap lawn seats for big outdoor concerts because you didn't want to stand in the mud with bikers, hippies, and Frisbee-wielding under-30s. When I came to college, though, I edited my theory, deciding instead that oldness struck as soon as you got a job that lasted more than three months and whose title didn't translate into the everyday vernacular as "Office Doughnut Wench" or "Irate Customer Crap Receptacle."
However, it recently occurred to me that oldness doesn't just occur within the expanse of a single instant; rather, it is a process that takes place gradually. Still, there are particular moments, some more so than others, that make me incredibly aware of the passage of time. And for some reason, the last few months have been chock full of these instances, and they have all been terrifying.
First, there was Jenna's wedding. The girl with whom I had spent my earliest summers playing Barbies was suddenly 22 (miraculously, sans gray hair), and making a life-long commitment that, out of all of our mutual friends, only Barbie and Ken had made thus far. I was her maid of honor, and that assignment alone was enough to cause a quarter-life crisis involving a weepy round of whiskey sours at the reception with the other single first-time bridesmaids and Jenna's grandma. We were getting old, it seemed, and for some reason, the urge to resist such aging and the responsibility that came with it was particularly strong. I admired Jenna's conviction regarding her new husband, but the thought of being so committed had the effect of inducing a sort of brain freeze accompanied by vivid thoughts of old women with millions of cats.
This breakthrough occurred while playing Barbies with Jenna, my neighbor, who had asked how old my Barbie was. In the end, I decided that she was 16 since, and according to my Disney-nourished mind, 16 was the equivalent of a grown-up, but not so old that her hair would turn gray (as I imagined instantly happened as soon as you turned 20).
Of course, my perception of what was old changed as I aged. "Oldness" became calculated by behavior more than numbers. When I was in high school, for instance, you were old if you were unwilling to buy the cheap lawn seats for big outdoor concerts because you didn't want to stand in the mud with bikers, hippies, and Frisbee-wielding under-30s. When I came to college, though, I edited my theory, deciding instead that oldness struck as soon as you got a job that lasted more than three months and whose title didn't translate into the everyday vernacular as "Office Doughnut Wench" or "Irate Customer Crap Receptacle."
However, it recently occurred to me that oldness doesn't just occur within the expanse of a single instant; rather, it is a process that takes place gradually. Still, there are particular moments, some more so than others, that make me incredibly aware of the passage of time. And for some reason, the last few months have been chock full of these instances, and they have all been terrifying.
First, there was Jenna's wedding. The girl with whom I had spent my earliest summers playing Barbies was suddenly 22 (miraculously, sans gray hair), and making a life-long commitment that, out of all of our mutual friends, only Barbie and Ken had made thus far. I was her maid of honor, and that assignment alone was enough to cause a quarter-life crisis involving a weepy round of whiskey sours at the reception with the other single first-time bridesmaids and Jenna's grandma. We were getting old, it seemed, and for some reason, the urge to resist such aging and the responsibility that came with it was particularly strong. I admired Jenna's conviction regarding her new husband, but the thought of being so committed had the effect of inducing a sort of brain freeze accompanied by vivid thoughts of old women with millions of cats.