Please, Friends: Stop Saying 'Elderly'

Back in the '80s, I was features editor at a mid-sized daily newspaper and the man who is now my husband was a freelance writer who called me one day hoping to get some work as a music critic. We agreed to meet for lunch, and I selected a place not far from the paper that was a favorite among the business crowd and retirees.

"We'll be the only two people there under 40," I told Carlo.
"I'm 43," he replied.

Two thoughts: First, Aaaaawkward.

Second: Wow, I had no idea he was old.

I was in my mid-20s at the time, and 40 was an age I couldn't imagine ever being. It seemed so far away, so theoretical, and yes — at the time I would have called it "old."

That exchange contained so many lessons, the first of course being about the folly of making assumptions. When we met in person, I found Carlo to be energetic, urbane and kind of ageless. Definitely not old. Which brought me to a larger realization, which was that I didn't really know what qualified as “old."

Since then, I have discovered, as perhaps have you, that there is a large variety of opinion on the topic of old — what it is, when it starts and under what circumstances it's OK to apply it as a label to another human.

Today, at 64, I have an older-person's pre-jowl situation, thinning hair and general crankiness about the coarseness of the culture and the descent of civility. Yet my opinions — especially about language — have grown both feistier and wartier with the passage of time.

Which brings me to this. For the love of all that is holy, please please please stop saying "Elderly." Or at least ask yourself whether you need to use it.

I'll lay out my reasons in a minute, but let's agree up front that this is essentially just a peeve of mine, as opposed to a pressing issue. And if you're wondering, who does she think she is, the language police?, the answer is yes, I do. I am the Barney Fife of language. And I'd like to toss "elderly" in the hoosegow and throw away the key.

To begin with, people do not generally agree on what it means. Merriam-Webster defines elderly as "rather old; especially being past middle age," but of course "rather" is a curious waffle word and — must I say it? — no one agrees what constitutes middle age, either. So none of this is at all helpful.

Plenty of people consider "elderly" a more polite way to say "old," but to my mind one hits "old" before getting to "elderly." To my mind, "elderly" is best described by the viral videos of hobbling old hard-of-hearing dogs with a sweet female voice-over shakily asking "What time did you say we were eating, four?" Then the response from a younger voice: "Thirty. Four-thirty."

"Elderly" suggests not just the acquiring of years but the loss of critical faculties and perhaps a wish to have dinner at 4 o'clock. From this vantage point, "elderly" fits most folks in a nursing home, but I'm fully aware that should I ever be one of them, I'll be wanting to redefine elderly as 120.

Meanwhile, at that newspaper where I once worked as a youthful features editor, I once read an article in which the reporter described someone as "an elderly woman of 70."

SEVENTY? I have plenty of friends in their 70s and there isn't one I would consider "elderly." I wouldn't even consider them old, even if actuarial tables indicate they are. What I see are their distinct human qualities — those mystery ingredients that make them who they are.

And a few of them might even still be sharp enough to know that if your write that a person is, specifically, 70, you don't need the word "elderly," which just lards up the facts with a dumb generalization about which at least some of your readers will disagree.

To the extent that any of this matters, it's because avoiding labels when it's reasonable to do so (it isn't always practical) makes room for seeing others as people first rather than a "type" that can be easily dismissed. It matters because people should be confident in knowing that whether they are greeted at a family reunion, business lunch or a hospital bed, the person they meet hasn't stuffed them into a category that makes them less human.

This goes for how we see kids and teenagers too, for that matter. On either side of the bell curve of life, we have language that encourages us to generalize, to group and to dismiss.

But it's possible to do better. Because your old aunt Mary was, once ago, just Mary. And inside she still is.

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About the art

The gouache painting at the top was a portrait I made of a sprightly, winsome, beloved dachshund who, at the time, had a few years on her and went on to acquire many more. She probably hoped dinner was at 4 p.m., but then all dogs do, don’t they?