“How old are you?” a child will ask an adult.
“Don’t ask that. It’s rude!” an adult will tell a child.
Why, I ask, is it rude to ask someone their age? It’s as if there could possibly be a bad answer, like there’s an age that could be wrong, an ugly, embarrassing answer.
If we’re so fortunate to reach any age, we should be boastful about it, grateful and proud.
I mean, we tell the world when we turn zero ages. Like a hundred, or fifty. Actually, those special birthdays don’t even begin until we’re thirty. Nobody cares about ten or twenty like we do the rest of the zero ages. It’s not a secret that day, but if the day before a woman was to celebrate the big five-O, a little girl asked her how old she was, she might get into trouble. It makes no sense.
(Yes, I know for legal reasons such as interviewing someone for a job, you aren’t supposed to ask a person their age, but that’s not what I’m talking about.)
Before I close this silly mind spew, I have to say one thing: I am forty-eight. I am proud to be this age, and so thankful. We just need to get over ourselves and stop associating rudeness with asking someone how old they are.