Suddenly Everyone Looks 12: A Field Guide to Feeling Ancient in Public

I resisted asking. I really did.

But I had an appointment with a new doctor the other day, and when she bounced into the exam room, pigtails bouncing along with her—I couldn’t help myself.

I blurted, “I’m so sorry, but… how old are you?”

She laughed, probably used to it, and told me.

She is, in fact, a licensed, trained, and terrifyingly competent adult.

But she still looked… twelve.

When, exactly, did this happen? When did everyone in charge start looking like they just got their learner’s permit?

Doctors, judges, police officers, presidents, and even airline pilots. All of them look like they’re skipping class to cosplay as grown-ups.

And it’s not just my imagination. They are actually younger than I am. Often by decades.

I prefer my pilots with grey hair, thank you. Lots of it. I like a man who’s flown through four thunderstorms, two bird strikes, and one mid-air coffee spill and didn’t flinch. I don’t want to hear “This is your captain speaking” from someone who’s still deciding between mechanical engineering and a gap year in Bali.

Same goes for judges. I want my judge to have crow’s feet, a liver spot or two, and a tone that says, “I've raised three teenagers and once got sued by a neighbor over a property line—don’t try me.”

Even my trusted specialist, Dr. Sweety Pie (not his real name, but you get the idea), looks about fifteen. Cute as a button, smart as a whip, and fully prepared to perform medical wizardry on this older chassis of mine.

One day, while waiting for him, I studied his diplomas on the wall. Undergrad, grad school, med school, specialty training—I added it all up.

He’s 35.

Thirty. Five.

I have bunions older than that.

I have wine older than that.

But there he is, smiling, reassuring, and fully capable of patching me up and sending me out for another ten laps around the sun.

So here we are—living in a world where everyone in charge looks suspiciously like they were born sometime after I got married, making them young enough to be my children. It's disorienting.

It's humbling

But you know what? Maybe it's also kind of beautiful.

Maybe it’s a sign that the next generation is capable, even if they still get carded at happy hour. Maybe the torch is passing, whether I’m ready or not. And maybe, just maybe, I’m now the one who looks wise, even if I sometimes forget where I put my actual wisdom.

Still, I’d feel a lot better if Dr. Sweety Pie would grow a beard. Or at least stop wearing sneakers with cartoon characters on them.