How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
John Milton, Sonnet 7
I’m always getting mistaken for younger than I am. (It figures: barely five feet tall, incredible skin, immature.) And this has always bothered me. From the time I was a kid who looked 12 at age 16, I desperately wanted to appear my age. To be taken seriously. Like an adult.
“You’ll appreciate it when you’re older,” women promised me back then, but I was certain that day would never come. Lately, though, this weird new thing has been happening to me. Someone will ask how old I am, and I’ll have this split second where I’m like: Should I… lie?
My whole life, I’ve been told that youth (or the appearance thereof) is an enviable asset. That being able to “stay young” is a superpower. So, if I can pass for younger… should I? What could it get me?
Join me as I embark on a cost/benefit analysis of the social currency of youth. What would it cost me to turn back time? What do I stand to gain from a few more apocryphal years of my 20s?
Should I lie?
Coming soon.