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I’m a feminist with strong self-esteem — so why do I care so much about looking old and fat?
Earlier today, a man on the street thought I was my daughter’s grandmother.
First of all, a quick PSA to dudes on streets everywhere (as well as indoor dudes, and really, all dudes, and you know what, it’s not about gender, I’m addressing everyone, here): Never, ever call someone a “grandma” unless you’re reallllly, completely, totally sure that they’re a grandma.
Seems like that should go without saying, but here we find ourselves.
I’m 45 years old, and until now, literally no one has ever mistaken me for older than I am (or if they have, they’ve kept it to themselves). When I was 21 and my then-boyfriend, now-husband, Jordan, was 20, we ordered wine at a restaurant, and only I got carded. I got carded well into my 30s. When I tell people I’ve been married for over 20 years, their jaws often drop: “What, did you get married when you were in high school?!” (When I tell them that, no, I was 23, their jaws often drop once again, because no one in my circles gets married that young, apparently—but I digress.)
I have a young face — or so I thought. The truth is, I’ve been so busy hoping people don’t see me as fat, it never occurred to me to hope people didn’t see me as old, too.
