The Age of Women

I should know better at my age. But we're all stupid from time-to-time. This particular stupidity was just the other day: I asked a woman her age. I don't know what came over me; I should have known better. Dammit, I do know better! But I can't deny it. I did, I did it.

It was a very relaxing conversation about children, and the age of children. Most of the other women were really too young to have children at all, although one or two of them, surprisingly, had several, older than I would have thought possible. But she was clearly old enough. And she wouldn't say what age her children were. "I never tell people my children's ages," she said, with an air of finality: there was not going to be any negotiation. Everybody knew that this was an attempt to disguise her own age. Well, more than an attempt: it did disguise her age. The others, all young women, did the 'whatever' thing and moved on; they weren't very interested. But I was.

Some seductive demon rerouted the path to my tongue, bypassing all my critical faculties: judgment, experience, good sense, all shorted out. I could feel it rising in my gorge. And I couldn't stop it. I almost managed that humming thing that can frustrate the demons at the last gasp. But I failed.

And out it came: "So, em, what, em , age, em, em, are you, em, then?" I heard myself say. As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know what she’s going to say next (we all know what she’s going to say next, don’t we?). Oh, no! Run for it! The wrath of God is but small bier compared to the galactic carnage I've just unleashed on myself. Her eyes glinted. I swear it: no cliché, they actually glinted. I squirmed (no cliché either).

You've probably heard of transactional analysis, a way of analyzing human interchanges. Best known for a simple (and very entertaining) book called "The Games People Play", which was a popular Christmas gift a couple of decades back. We were now playing a game called 'Cat and Mouse'. It is useful to understand what game you're in, and which role has been chosen for you. It lets you get your mind back in gear. I knew I was the mouse. She knew she was the cat. It was all going to end badly, at least for me. I could delay the inevitable, but only by being, in her judgment, sufficiently entertaining. I had ceded entire control of the conversation to her. And she was about to enjoy herself.

Anyway, knowing what she was going to say next (you do all know what she's going to say next, don't you?), I thrashed round for clues. I expect you know this too, but there's an old adage, purveyed among males from generation to generation to cope with this situation: 'face goes at forty, hands go at fifty'. It's a very rough guide, but it has stood me in good stead for many years. I peered hopefully round her eyes and mouth. I tried to examine her hands. I should have paid attention earlier: it was too late now, the hands were clenched as demurely as she could muster, and her head was doing that 'Miss Piggy' thing that tightens everything up.

Then she pounces: "What age do you think I am, then?" she asks, menacingly. Oh, God! Here it is: the moment I've brought on myself. My only chance is to tell her what she wants to hear. I have to find a number sufficiently high for her to think I'm trying to be honest, yet sufficiently low to enable her to justify the cost, in time and money, of all that cosmetic glabber that she drizzles over herself continuously.

"Oh", I say, nonchalantly, "I'm not very good at that sort of thing." I know I'm not going to get away with this, but we have to play all the moves.

"Never mind", she says, with measured calm, "I just want to know what you think." And she does: she does want to know what I think. But I haven't yet managed to figure out what she wants me to think. I struggle to recall previous contacts, and possible conclusions. I maintain an outward 'we who are about to die, salute you' kind of calm, and solid eye contact: fear just makes it worse.

Then my racing brain unearths a memory of being quite close, face-to-face. I plump for a number, and examine it for 'what she wants to hear' quality against this memory. And it passes.

"Forty." I say, with ringing confidence, although I don't feel any confidence at all. All I know at this stage is that she's between twenty and sixty, probably between thirty and fifty. And I've split the difference.

"That's about right." she says: no further information. Did I go too high or too low? As I survey the smoking ruin of this conversation, I realise I'm never going to find out.

Which is why I'm so bad at this sort of thing.