It was an all-women birthday party, on a warm summer Saturday night in a  backyard outside of Denver, Colorado with a glorious view of the Rockies. Jutta, the birthday girl, had turned 51 the day before. Most of the guests, all  of them German expatriates, were in their mid-forties to early Sixties. All except two,  that is.  

At 34, Katharina, a short and feisty blonde from the former East Germany,  was the youngest. I was the oldest. 

After spending a week on a ranch donning dusty cowboy boots and blue  jeans, I’d driven in from Wyoming that afternoon, taken a shower, and put on my  white jeans, a bare-shoulder lacy black top, turquoise jewelry, and a pair of dressy  sandals to finally let me toes breathe. I felt great. 

Of the seven women present, I knew only the birthday girl and Silke, a mutual friend, but we all quickly found common ground exchanging stories on how we  made our way to the United States, and our work and life experiences here.  All but  one, that is. 

Katharina quickly monopolized the conversation, raising more than one  eyebrow with some snippy comments about politics, careers, and cultural  differences.  

She talked up her job, a supervisory position in an auditing firm, as  something so exclusive that it would be pretty much unattainable for the rest of us. I  found this amusing at best, suspecting that she was twisting the facts a bit.  

She claimed expert knowledge when we compared the educational systems  of both countries, and dismissively sneered at Silke when confronted with some  facts and figures that contradicted her arguments.  

She tried to talk Jutta’s 19-year old daughter, an idealistic AU scholarship  student aspiring to be an immigration lawyer, out of public service and suggested  she pursue a different career instead because “there no money in public service.”

In general, she seemed to get on everyone’s nerves. When the topic of  conversation moved on to age, not surprising since it was a birthday party, and  there were some moans about getting older, I naively quipped, “Oh well, I’m 68 and  I’m not worried about it.” And I’m not. Age is just a number.  

But both the Jutta and I were taken aback when her daughter told us the next  day that Katharina had taken her aside afterwards, whispering, “I’m glad you are  here to lower the average age a bit.” 

Perhaps she was just trying to be funny, or hip, or mask her insecurity, but  her remark did not sit well with us. 

It didn’t make me furious, but it did put a lump in my throat, at least for a  little while.  

Suddenly I’m labeled as the oldest, the one that drives the average age  upward. What does that mean? Am I putting a damper on the party? Do I lower the  fun factor?  

Jutta sighed when Silke revealed that she had noticed Katharina flirting  openly with Juttas’s husband, who was dashing in and out manning the grill. 

Most of the time, people don’t guess my age. They think I’m younger. Often  age is contextual. When I was traveling with a friend in her fifties, her friends  thought I was around that age too. But when I talk about my kids and grandkids,  people can do the math and figure it out. And that’s okay. I’m proud of my age. And  I’m thankful, having lost dear friends and family members at an age much younger  than I. 

I don’t feel 68, and I’m told I don’t dress or act like it. But what does that  mean? How is one supposed to act or dress appropriately at 68? 

When a man complimented Gloria Steinem on her 50^th birthday, “You don’t look like 50,” she retorted, 

“This is what 50 looks like!” 

I’m what 68 looks like. At least my 68. 

Some of the popular slogans now are that “70 is the new 50” or “50 is the  new 30”. That might be. We have plenty of pop culture proof of that.  Jane Fonda rocks at 81. Clint Eastwood is 88 and his films are as good as ever.  Cher and Bette Midler are in their Seventies and Betty White is over 90’s and they  are still active. Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler, both past 70, perform teenage  acrobatics on stage and still rock literally. Willie Nelson is 85 and tours eight out of  12 months a year to packed venues, and Tony Bennett, bless is heart, is 92 and will  play Wolftrap next week. 

I know people who act old at 40 and others who seem young at 80. I’d much  rather spend time with an interesting 80-year old than with a boring 40-year old. Fortunately, my disappointment over Katharina’s immature comment, and  over being pigeonholed simply because I’m confident enough to admit to my age,  didn’t last long. 

Any resentment soon turned into pity. She has a rough road ahead of her. With that attitude, she won’t age gracefully and embrace the blessings that any age  holds. She’ll just get old. 

If she’s lucky, that is.