Happy & Healthy

Get lost with your age

When I was appointed editor-in-chief of Marie Claire six years ago (despite the fact that I made this fashion mistake ), a little publicity circus broke loose. Totally negligible compared to yesterday's Sylvana spectacle, but still. I had to ‘do little dances’ for journalists. All the time. I practiced my pose (here's how you do it), sometimes said really stupid things that were then totally taken out of context and used as the headline of the story.

I said that working in TV after your thirties becomes a bit sad. My own husband and best friends work in TV for goodness' sake. I walked around for three weeks with a hunched back and my shoulders practically folded around my ears from shame. That’s not how I meant it, of course, but that’s how it was written. Anyway. I am not divorced and my friend has not unfriended me, but still.

What also struck me was that at the end of each interview, there was a discreet question about my age. I found that number back in the intro of the piece: ‘May-Britt Mobach (36) has been appointed to blablabla’. I understood little of it. What did it matter how old I was? Isn’t it about what you do and not about your age? Or did they also want to know what my height and weight were?

”What did it matter how old I was? Isn’t it about what you do and not about your age?”

Age is just a number if you ask me, and I felt that you were judged even more by that number. How quickly was she editor-in-chief? Is she younger than ‘the one from Elle’? That kind of nonsense. When I played a little complaining wall with my art director Daphne, she said: “I understand. It’s totally unimportant, but I always want to know how old a woman is that I read about and I also calculate back when I see that she has children of a certain age. Then I want to know how old she was when she gave birth and so on.”

You probably identify more easily with someone if you know how old they are. But what does it say about you? I know grandmothers who are eighteen and girls who are sixteen.

Last night I had to (yes, I had to) buy shoes from Miu Miu. MyTheresa didn’t have them in my size and on the Miu Miu site, I got a postcode error. They probably don’t deliver in the Netherlands, I thought. These shoes were so cute, it couldn’t be an easy ride to get them. I heard from Lizzy van der Ligt (she had them earlier) that she had wandered around London for half a day to find the right pair) and such a fate awaited me too. Colleague Daan (also not averse to an online shopping adventure) dug deep and texted me that the shoes a. were still in my size and b. were also delivered in the Netherlands.

So when the kids finally slept, I opened my computer and went pedal to the metal to MiuMiu.com. The ballerinas were still there in my size, check and yes, the site indicated the Netherlands. Checkcheck. I had to ‘fill in’ a space between the numbers and letters of my postcode. Otherwise, I had filled in all the boxes correctly and I was ready to proceed to checkout.

”I want to buy a pair of shoes. Is there a minimum and maximum age for that?”

What do you think happened? A screen popped up that I could only pay after I had filled in my date of birth. My date of birth. Again that damn age. I want to buy a pair of shoes. Is there a minimum and maximum age for that? Well then.

That’s why I would like to give all gentlemen and lady journalists and people from the Miu Miu website an important etiquette lesson.

There are two things you should never ask a woman. Her age and the number of shoes she has.

Point.