How Old Are You?

I've been trying to recall the exact point at which the question, "How old are you?" became an all out intrusion, a dreaded invasion of privacy so oddly disconcerting, I'll do almost anything to avoid it. Gone are the days when age was a non-entity in my life, a mere number hidden in the depths of much more important things like current boyfriends, the latest career milestone reached, apartment hunting, fights with girlfriends, shopping sprees, bars, nightclubs, boys, and full scale immersion in whatever pop culture mania had taken hold at the time. I hate that I hate this question so much. But why?

At some point, probably around the mid-thirties, "How old are you?" becomes the mortal enemy. As the forties are clearly on the horizon, an internal shift takes place, forcing one's hand towards taking a soulful inventory of all the things that simply aren't working. Unrealized dreams and goals still not attained become glaringly obvious, renting the apartment you've loved for years now feels like a second-tier option compared to buying - for isn't that what proper adults do? Certain friends suddenly feel like heavy baggage and the need to replace them with new, more evolved versions becomes readily apparent. Single-dom and the question of children are carefully scrutinized; Why am I still single? What's wrong with me? Do I really believe in marriage anyway? Can I give up a life of independence for a child at this late stage in the game? As a result, age, particularly as one hits 40, becomes a sort of unspoken benchmark for certain events to have taken place. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. And when they haven't, admitting you are not in your still-acceptable-to-be-a-fuck-up twenties and thirties, age becomes the villain in a gal's life story.

I know why revealing my age can be a painfully awkward experience. You see, I got a late start in my career. I flailed around for years having grand life experiences like fronting a rock band, modeling, acting, living in Europe, living in a squat, living with boyfriends, just plain LIVING! After finally settling on a career in Hollywood at 30, I didn't land my first real TV job until the age of 33 though it wasn't until I hit 36 I realized I had found my calling and really went full steam ahead. I've not looked back since. Now the vice president of a major production company, not to mention having created, directed, written and produced numerous movies, and tv shows, the realization that I just turned 40 still manages to creep into my head, telling me none of it is good enough.

As a bona fide perfectionist, my mind loves to entertain such unproductive thoughts such as, "If only I had started in my twenties, I'd be so much further along," or "If I was 30, my credits would be much more impressive. But at 40? Not so much." The latter stems from people often assuming I'm much younger than I am - and I wonder if they feel a sense of disappointment upon learning I am in my fourth decade of life, and therefore not nearly as accomplished as they thought I was. I've even (gulp) LIED about my age, just so as not to disappoint. Not all the time, but every so often. And that's too often, damn it. All this dramatic, self-destructive talk, and carrying on instead of honoring just how far I've come in a few short years - and my career trajectory shows no signs of slowing down either. In fact, my entire life's journey to get to this point has been rather miraculous actually, and yet I've still let turning 40 negate that.

As I re-read this passage, I am slightly ashamed to be so shallow and defined by what others MIGHT think. The truth is, I have no idea, and my accomplishments are my accomplishments regardless of my age. In fact, isn't there some sort of special accolade for having the balls to pursue one of the most competitive career tracks known to Western civilization well into my thirties? Shouldn't I embrace the fact that despite so much of my industry's need to cater to the 18-34 set, it's actually a blessing for someone my age? After all, I have been there, done that and moved successfully to the other side, garnering wisdom, and perspective into that (thankfully) bygone era. I can authentically attest to those experiences through my craft, and able to offer guidance in a way a writer/producer straight out of film school couldn't. This all sounds fine but when you work in an industry that worships youth, it's hard to admit the truth sometimes. Case in point...

Years ago, Riley Weston, a TV writer posing as a teen was hired for JJ Abrams' college-set drama Felicity - she was in fact 32. When the powers that be found out she was lying, they promptly fired her, complete with public humiliation, and a send off that branded her as permanently "black listed" from Hollywood. As far as I know, she never worked again. True, Riley lied. While I get that dishonesty is a surefire way to sour any relationship, I got the distinct impression the Fox executives were more disappointed she wasn't a teen prodigy who was still in the collegiate trenches, not that her pants were on fire. Let's be clear here. Hollywood is a town where lying is as de rigueur as oxygen, as commonplace as valet parking, and palm trees. So to use that as the reasoning behind the packing slip especially when she was consistently delivering the creative goods, well... I just didn't totally buy it.

The piece those Fox executives missed was that she was in fact the absolute perfect age to write about the college experience. She had already been through it, and not that long ago. She came out the other side with battle scars and insight in tact, with stories, characters and her own unique set of experiences to bring into the writer's room. But she wasn't 18 as she claimed. Wisdom be damned!

I've decided enough is enough. And I want to clarify that I don't always lie about my age. Just once in a while, in a pinch where I think a career opportunity might be in jeopardy. "You're only as sick as your secrets" some wise soul once said. Part of writing this blog in the first place, is to FULLY embrace my age, to document it for better or for worse, and to ultimately celebrate it in all its glory. The more we women talk about it, share our shame of aging in a culture that fears it more than death, and then come together to turn Madison Avenue on it's ear, the better chance we have of mitigating the damage to our self-esteem. I'm changing the dialogue, right here, right now. May we all endeavor to be more conscious of how we talk about other women, how we secretly judge each other, and worst of all constantly comparing ourselves. I for one, promise never to lie about my age again.



If all of this is merely pipe dream, there's always Paris. The French are known to hold a special kind of adoration for older women (Ines de la Fressange anyone?). Madison Avenue might have created this mess we're in, but we can get us out of it.