"But Mr. Weston is almost an old man . Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty ." from Emma by Jane Austen, chapter 4. As the year is drawing to a close, I have been thinking about growing older, because I turned 48 this year. In Jane Austen's time, 40-50 years was the average life span, and she only lived to 42. Therefore, the above comment may not be as harsh as we would think. But today, 50 is not old given our 21st century life expectancy. In fact, I have heard some people refer to it as the new 30. So if 50 is the new 30, I'm still in my theoretical 20's. Then why am I still sometimes reluctant to admit my age? Conversely, why am I flattered on the rare times I get carded at the grocery store? Maybe our culture encourages our infatuation with youth. Media has inundated us with the myth/lie which says "youth + beauty = happiness" or at least a reasonable fac simile. It's also interesting to note that the standard is different for women than ...