I guess I was 40 when it first slapped me in the face. A Wall Street HR type, bluntly, unprofessionally, and oblivious to the fact I might be wired, told me to my face that I was “too old” for Wall Street.
Actually the bozo did my a favor.
I immediately updated my emergency fund formula with a factor for age. I put a multiplier in the calculation that guesstimated weeks to find a paycheck that was age specific.
(It’s currently still set at 30=1/40=1.5/45=2/50=3/55=4/60=5/65=6! I have no idea if that is the right setting, but you should see the newly minted turkeys eyes bug out when they catch a glimpse of that.)
In actuality, I am coming to the realization that at 65, all you’ll get is my career aspiration — to be the old fogy that’s the WalMart greeter. Seriously, maybe then I’ll get over being an introvert.
Point of emphasis, I think at these advanced ages, you ARE after all just one step from the nursing home and another step away from the grave, only likely to succeed in your own business.
As Amerika grays, I think those that can grasp the prejudice, like a nettle, will succeed. The rest will be eating dogfood and playing mahjong at some retirement village in lower slobbobia.
Depressing. “I coulda been a contenda!”
Reinke Faces Life 