GUESS AGAIN
(Because denial and good lighting only get you so far.)
There are very few universal truths in life.
Water is wet.
Fire is hot.
And asking someone to guess your age is a cry for help—especially after puberty.
That question has ruined birthdays, marriages, and at least three brunches I’ve personally attended.
It never goes well.
So, let’s break this down decade by decade, and maybe—just maybe—we can stop the madness.
When you’re 21 and look 12
Don’t ask anyone to guess your age. You’ll regret it.
You think you look 21 buying a beer.
They’ll answer that you look 12 and ask if you’d like some Pokémon cards and a juice box.
You think you look like the Marlboro Man.
You look like a fetus in jeans.
When you’re 30, a little thick in the middle, living on iced coffee and takeout
Listen—if you haven’t been sleeping, hydrating, or using sunscreen since 2015, don’t go fishing for compliments.
You think you’re serving hot 25-year-old.
Turns out, you’re giving more Target manager after a double shift.
You just got a new haircut and decide to ask the barista, “How old do you think I am?”
The poor kid starts sweating like it’s an exam he didn’t study for.
If he says 35, he’s about to find out how cold iced coffee is.
If he says 25, he’s either terrified or trying to sleep with you.
Either way, don’t trust it.
When you’re in your 40s and everything’s a blur
This is the decade where you start squinting at restaurant menus and asking, “Who turned the lights down?” like it’s a conspiracy.
You’ve got teenagers, in-laws, and knee pain that hits like a drunk ex—unexpected, inconvenient, and hard to get rid of.
Nobody guesses your age anymore because they’re afraid they’ll be right.
You don’t ask because so are you.
When you’re a 50-year-old man and jacked
You get a pass.
You’ve clearly made deals with devils and chiropractors to keep it together this long.
Still got your hair. Great.
Gray? Even better.
So go ahead—ask the question. This may be the one time it doesn’t end in regret.
If they say 42, you flex and wink.
If they say 58, who cares? You could still bench-press their dad.
Enjoy your DILF status.
Just stop grunting every time you sit down.
It’s a dead giveaway.
When you’re a woman at 60 and still hanging on to Farrah Fawcett dreams
First off, Farrah looked 23 in that poster and was probably pushing 30.
You are not Farrah.
You are Susan from Accounting.
And Susan’s neck is starting to look like a turkey’s elbow.
You ask your date to guess your age, and he freezes like a deer in headlights.
No right answer.
No escape.
And wouldn’t you know it—out of nowhere, he has a coughing fit so bad the waiter brings him water and a to-go box. Bless his heart.
Sixty may be the new forty—but only if folks squint and stand real far back.
At 70? Just stop.
Man. Woman. It doesn’t matter.
You may have taken immaculate care of yourself—never smoked, never drank, lived off kale and filtered water, and spent more on Botox than your first car—but your hands will still snitch.
They always do.
Those hands say, “We’ve seen sunlight, dish soap, and acid-washed jeans.”
And those fine lines?
They’re not so fine anymore.
They’re aggressive.
Like a road map to every beach bar, road trip, and moonlit heart-to-heart that made you who you are.
And your posture?
It’s gone from upright and tight to bent and praying nothing pops.
Here’s the gospel according to gravity
Age will find you.
It’s the IRS of biology.
You can try to hide behind Spanx, filler, attitude, and a closet full of Forever 21, but it’s coming for you.
Neck skin. Lip lines.
Joints that creak like floorboards after curfew.
The whole package.
So unless you’re delusional, heavily medicated, or just itching to ruin your day—don’t ask anyone to guess your age.
It’ll go one of two ways:
They’ll lie—poorly—but you’ll go home and post about it anyway.
They’ll tell the truth, and you’ll go home and put your head in the oven.
So please, light the candle, eat the cake, and accept the fact that every birthday is one step closer to that magical age where you can say whatever you want in public and blame it on being old.
You’ve earned that right.
Just don’t push your luck fishing for ego strokes.
Not unless you’re Farrah Fawcett.
In 1976.
Wearing that swimsuit.
And you’re not.
That’s The Condition—for everyone who’s aging disgracefully and proud of it.
If you’re nodding, laughing, or checking your neck in the mirror—go on, hit ❤️ and subscribe. It’s cheaper than filler.
Too funny but true 🤣
Sad but so true. I ain’t asking anybody to guess my age😂😂. But the good news is that at 69 I still can get out of pain-free😉 That’s what really counts.