Somewhere along the line, we decided age needed a PR team.

We track it, hide it, lie about it, celebrate it when it suits us, and weaponize it when it doesn’t.

Entire industries exist to convince us that a number, an arbitrary, relentless, completely indifferent number, is somehow a verdict on relevance.

It is exhausting.

Let’s be clear. Age matters in exactly a few places. If you are underage and we are talking about sex, alcohol, or anything requiring actual legal guardrails such as enlisting in the military or voting, yes, age matters. Full stop. Society needs rules there.

But beyond that?

It is mostly theater.

If you are healthy, engaged, and still curious enough to ask questions, age becomes background noise, a detail like your shoe size…technically true, occasionally useful, rarely defining.

And yet, pick up certain newspapers and you know the ones, suddenly anyone north of 60 is labeled “elderly.” Elderly? It sounds like you should be wrapped in a shawl, sipping soup, and waiting for The Honeymooners reruns to start.

Meanwhile, half the so-called elderly that I know are outwalking, outthinking, and outliving people twenty years younger who are already tired, mostly from scrolling.

Age is relative. Energy is not.

We also managed to turn relationships into actuarial tables. If a woman dates younger, she is a cougar. If a man does it, he is what exactly? Distinguished? Lucky? Mysteriously exempt?

Let’s not pretend this is about concern. It is about discomfort with people refusing to age appropriately—whatever that means.

Here is a thought.

Eat like you plan to be here for a while.

Move your body like it still belongs to you.

Keep your mind sharp enough to surprise yourself.

Do that, and age becomes less of a label and more of a footnote.

The truth is, some people are old at 40.

Others are just getting interesting at 70.

Aging is not the issue.

Giving up is so screw the number and live like you are forever young.