I Never Lie About My Age, Intentionally

photo by patries71
photo by patries71

Once, for a whole year I claimed to be older than I was. A doctor’s receptionist corrected me. My “birthdate” and “age” didn’t match up.

It’s not that I have a strict policy about not lying; it’s just that I don’t think one’s age represents all that much so I don’t get too hyperbolic about it.

To celebrate my friend’s 50th birthday (hers, not mine; I’m not fifty) we planned to see a Broadway show. We would try to get discounted “rush” tickets which are offered occasionally by a few theaters, originally for students who were presumably on a limited budget. More select, are theaters which offer “general rush” tickets, available to the general public the day of the show.

We met at the Golden Theater for Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike. The show would be closing soon and got rave reviews. My friend had arrived before me and attempted to buy tickets. Now she stood under the marquee, a look of defeat plastered on her face.

“They wouldn’t sell me the rush tickets,” she groaned. “I’m not under 35.”

“What?!?! Who ever heard of such a thing? Under 35?”

That’s a little random, no? A 34-year-old could get the cheap tickets but not a 39-year-old?

“It’s not general rush like we thought. It’s “youth rush,” she sniffled.

Youth rush?!?! What kind of ageist shenanigans were going on here?

I gave it a moment to sink in. Part of me was delighted to hear that someone in their 30’s was still considered a “youth.” We had a back-up plan in case the rush tickets were sold out, but they hadn’t sold out, had they? They were just not selling them to us.

I wasn’t leaving without a fight. (Not a real fight, I’m a bit of a chicken.)

I channeled my inner young person.

It took a little longer than expected.

Then a silent pep talk. I could pass for 35! After all it’s only a four year differential. I told my friend my plan. I was assertive. “We’re talking about four years for Pete’s sake, I’m not Betty White!” I thought this would cheer her up. I thought she’d get swept up in my enthusiasm, and my “no one’s gonna shut us out” spirit. She didn’t. Her brows knitted together and a look of deep concern washed over her.

What? What’s the problem?” I begged.

“It’s not just four years. You’re not 39,” she informed.

What? I did the math in my head. Dear Lord. She was right. I’m not 39. Not by a long shot. Holy cow, how long had it been, thinking I was 39? Jeez. That’s embarrassing. I quickly reviewed the film reel in my mind. When was the last time I told someone my age? Did they giggle?

Anyway, who cared. Time to move on and take action.

“Yes, you’re right,” I admitted. “I’m not 39. But I’m not leaving without those tickets.”

“You’re gonna lie?!?” She asked.

“No, I’m not going to lie. I’m simply going to point out that selling “youth rush” tickets is clearly biased and that the obsession with the youth of America is passé. And putting them on a pedestal has been frowned upon for years−I’ll show my frown lines to prove it!” I handed her my umbrella. “They’ll come around once they see it in those terms. You wait here.” I told her to stay put. Outside under the marquee.

I sauntered into the theater and up to the window. I asked, sweetly, for two rush tickets. The solemn lady behind the plexi-glass window looked at me stone-faced, with not a glimmer of kindness or even pity. She craned her neck forward to look at someone else. She said, “I told your friend already,” thrusting her chin at the person beside me, “they’re youth tickets. You have to be under thirty five.”

I looked to my right. I told her to wait outside!

I turned back to the staid lady with the frown. “Really!?!” I managed. The steam building inside me.

“And you need to show I.D. to prove it.” She added for good measure.

Oh really? I.D.! Bartend much! I yelled back at her inside my head. And another thing−you should try smiling once in a while; you might look less ancient yourself! I yelled that inside my head too.

We left the theater.

I don’t know what happened to the speech I planned. I couldn’t muster it. These people obviously missed the memo to stop over-indulging the youth. Disappointed, I looked at my friend and almost wished we were 35 again. But then I grabbed ahold of myself. Everything would be different if we were 35. I wasn’t so sure I wanted that. For one thing, my friend and I wouldn’t have even known each other−we hadn’t met until we were both older than that−and she was the best friend anyone could ever have.

There was one thing I was certain of. There was no way I’d trade in her friendship to be 35 again, not in a million years.

Mostly because, in a million years I’d be turning 50, and I’m definitely gonna need her for that.

P.S. The show was amazing!

I told you I wasn’t leaving without those tickets.

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  1. Eva, whenever I read your blog I laugh out loud – a lot. this one had me laughing and then, at the ‘friend’ thing, a bit weepy. I LOVE this anecdote and pray for a sequel.

    1. But the friend thing is happy! But I know what you mean, crying is appropriate just about all the time for me too. Thanks for reading!

  2. Love the sly humor, and the anger. Saying I was older started way early on for me, when I was 13 and claimed I was 14 to get my working papers and a job. Now, more than 55 years later, I’ve lost track…and like the responses I get – “Wow! you really don’t look THAT old”…

    1. Oh my gosh, I forgot all about lying about my age when I was 16, intentionally! Thanks for reminding me of those days. Thanks for stopping by, Cynthia and commenting. Come back soon!

    • Lillie

    • 11 years ago

    I have about a dozen favorite lines in this one. I agree with Peggy – a sequel would be fantastic. Glad you won’t be 50 for a million years because we need you to keep writing for at least that long.

    1. I’ll need help counting, needless-to-say…

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