At 70, I can still debate Shakespeare, learn new languages, and navigate technology just fine — so why does everyone suddenly speak to me like I've forgotten how to understand basic English?
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Last week at the pharmacy, a young clerk leaned across the counter and began speaking to me as if I were a toddler learning her first words.
"DO. YOU. HAVE. YOUR. INSURANCE. CARD?" she practically shouted, each word stretched out like taffy.
I stood there, prescription in hand, wearing my reading glasses that clearly indicated I could, in fact, read the very detailed Medicare documentation I'd brought with me.
The irony? I'd just come from teaching a workshop on digital literacy for seniors, where I'd spent two hours navigating complex software without missing a beat.
The clerk meant well, they always do, and that's what makes it so infuriating.
The infantilization nobody talks about
You know what nobody tells you about getting older? It's not the creaking knees or the reading glasses or even the way your body decides that 4 a.m. is suddenly an acceptable wake-up time.
It's the way the world starts treating you like you've somehow regressed into childhood the moment your hair turns silver.
I spent 32 years teaching high school English, managing classrooms full of teenagers who could debate Shakespeare with the intensity of Supreme Court justices.
I learned Italian at 66, not because I had to, but because I wanted to read Dante in his original language.
Just last year, at 69, I finally tackled the piano, something I'd been promising myself since I was 40.
My brain hasn't suddenly turned to mush because I qualify for senior discounts.
Yet somewhere between 60 and 70, I noticed a shift: Waiters started asking my adult children what I wanted to order while I sat right there, and bank tellers began explaining basic concepts like interest rates as if I'd never held a checking account.
Don't get me started on the technology store employees who assume I don't know what a smartphone is, despite the fact that I've been using one longer than they've been out of high school.
When kindness becomes condescension
What makes my blood boil isn't the assumption itself, it's the smile that comes with it.
That patient, beatific smile that says, "I'm such a good person for being so patient with this poor, confused elderly woman."
It's kindness weaponized into condescension, wrapped up in a bow of good intentions.
The other day, I was at a coffee shop working on an article when a well-meaning barista came over to "help" me with my laptop.
"Having trouble with the computer?" she asked sweetly, already reaching for my keyboard.
I was simply pausing to think, fingers hovering over the keys as I searched for the right word.
But to her, a pause meant confusion.
An older woman with technology must surely need rescuing.
Have you ever noticed how quickly people jump to help when they see gray hair near anything electronic?
They don't ask if you need help; they assume you do.
Moreover, they preemptively swoop in to save you from the big, bad machinery.
The volume problem
Then there's the volume issue.
Somewhere along the line, society decided that wrinkles equal deafness.
People raise their voices when talking to me as if age has somehow damaged my eardrums along with my skin elasticity.
They speak slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable like they're teaching English as a second language.
I want to tell them that I can hear them perfectly fine at normal volume.
That I understood complex literary criticism for three decades, analyzed sonnets with hormonal 16-year-olds, and guided countless students through the labyrinth of college application essays.
My comprehension skills haven't diminished just because my metabolism has.
However, here's the thing: When you correct them, when you say, "I can hear you just fine," they look hurt.
Wounded, even, because in their minds, they were being considerate.
They were being kind to the poor old lady who surely must be struggling.
The ones who get it right
You want to know who treats me like a fully functioning adult? My former students.
The teenagers I taught who are now in their 30s and 40s.
They talk to me the same way they always have: With respect, at normal volume, about complex topics.
They ask my opinion on current events, debate politics with me, and seek my advice not because I'm elderly and therefore "wise," but because they genuinely value my perspective.
There's a coffee shop I frequent where the owner, a man in his 50s, treats every customer the same regardless of age.
He doesn't slow down when taking my order or explain the menu like I've never seen a latte before.
When I mentioned I was learning piano, he launched into an enthusiastic discussion about jazz theory that lasted twenty minutes.
He saw me as a person learning something new, not an old person attempting the impossible.
These interactions are like oxygen: They remind me that I'm still the same person I was at 30, 40, 50, just with more experience and, yes, more wrinkles.
They treat my age as incidental.
Reclaiming the conversation
I've started pushing back, gently but firmly.
When someone speaks to me slowly, I respond quickly, using complex sentences and current slang (sparingly, I'm not trying to be the "cool grandma").
When they shout, I lower my voice to a whisper, forcing them to lean in and actually listen.
When they try to explain something basic, I ask advanced questions that show I'm three steps ahead.
Is it petty? Maybe, but it's also necessary because every time we allow ourselves to be infantilized, we reinforce the stereotype and we become complicit in our own diminishment.
I think about my students, how teenagers are constantly underestimated, their capacity for deep thought dismissed because of their age.
I spent decades fighting for them to be heard, to be taken seriously.
Now, I find myself fighting the same battle from the other end of the age spectrum.
Final thoughts
Growing older comes with challenges, I won't pretend otherwise but my mind isn't one of them.
My ability to understand complex ideas, engage with technology, or follow a normal conversation hasn't disappeared along with my youth.
The wrinkles on my face are evidence of years lived, not cognitive decline.
So please, talk to me like the adult I am.
Share your complex thoughts, your rapid-fire ideas, and your technical explanations.
Use your normal voice, your regular pace, your full vocabulary.
Trust that if I need clarification, I'll ask for it, just like any other competent adult would.
The truth is, the thing that ages us most is being treated like we've already left the conversation when we're still very much in it.
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