Well it's obvious isn't it? The minute your hair turns grey your brains drop out. NOOOOOOO! They don't, or we'd all be wading about amongst the little grey cells, so where did this popularly held myth come from? It has to be out there, or why else would people, who know nothing whatever about you, reckon they're going to go with the assumption that you must be as thick as pig shit, soley because you happen to have been around for a while. Now don't get me wrong. The thing is, I really don't mind being old. In fact I love it. It has many compensations, advantages even. There'll be more on that at a later date, and I'm actually very grateful to have achieved the age of the Bus Pass. One of my very dearest, closest friends died in her thirties. She would have loved to have survived long enough to see her children through to adulthood, to have seen them independent. My dad and brother also died too young. I really, really know that I am one of the lucky ones. BUT that doesn't mean I don't have to mind when I'm treated as if I'm one bra short of a matching set...which I always wear, by the way. I so do. I mind a hell of a lot. And what's the solution? To walk round with a sign strung about my neck declaring that I am a sentient being, that I have two reasonably good grade degrees, that I've held down some demanding jobs, that I've probably read more books than the average, that I've raised a family and can attend to my own hygiene needs! What?!
Obviously, that idea's not feasible, but there has to be some way of conveying all of the above to the general populace. There are, afterall, an awful lot of us out there. I think we have to start with the, 'funny voice we only use when addressing the old,' problem. I'm sorry to hark back to the failings of financial organisations here (though not that sorry because, as we all know, they are in fact the work of Beelzebub) but I recently had a classic example of this in the queue at my Bank. There was a man in front of me, probably in his mid-thirties. When he got to the counter he handed over his documents and the bank clerk, having greeted him with a respectful, 'Good morning', brought up his details on her computer and from then on referred to him by his name, Mr. Cunningham. When the business was concluded she wished him 'Goodbye.' All well and good. I then moved into his place. I had a few transactions to arrange so I'd, helpfully, written out a list of the amounts involved. As I began to pass the slip of paper across to her the clerk looked at me and said, 'What have we got here then, Lovely?' Except she actually said 'Luv-leeeeeee,' like that, in a singsong way, as one addressing a small child or those of limited intellectual resources, i.e. the stupid. See what I mean? Her entire demeanour was that of an indulgent adult about to try and decipher the art work of a three year old. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she wouldn't have called the previous guy, 'Luv-leeeeeee.' It would never have crossed her mind. But I was clearly feeble so needed special language. Really annoying, patrionising, insultingly childish language, specially designed for trying to communicate with that strange species of people who have passed their 60th birthday. Why, for fuck's sake, WHY? I was livid. I know she meant well, I know she had no concept of the fact that when older people are talked to in this way something inside them shrivels to dust. But it's demeaning, and it's bloody infuriating. I neither need nor want to be grovelled to, I don't want to be called Madam or any of that outmoded crap, but my name would be nice. You know, like a proper person.
Anyway, I decided I could either tolerate it or I could risk being labelled a total bitch and do something about it. I chose the latter. I spoke in modulated tones, and I did smile as I said, 'I'd really prefer to be addressed by my name.' I didn't think it was unreasonable, afterall the previous customer got his. She looked completely blank. She probably didn't even remember what she had called me, it was an automatic response to what she saw in front of her. The rest of the transaction was conducted in a huffy silence, the huffiness being hers, not mine. But it was fairly obvious she hadn't got the message so, when the business was concluded, I tried to reinforce it with a parting, 'Thank you Sweeee-teeeeeeeee.' Then I stomped out, resigned to the fact that I would, most likely, be described, in the staff room, during the coffee break, as some horrible old nutter this clerk had had to deal with that morning. Maybe I'd damaged my cause rather than benefited it. But I like to think there's just a tiny chance that when the next older person pops up in front of that girl she might, just might, bite back the 'Luv-leeeeee' and treat them with the same respect as any other customer. I can but hope.
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