Who Decided I’m Retirement-Ready? (Spoiler: Not Me.)

 

“Congratulations on your retirement.” Wait, what? I’m not retiring! I’m only 61 years old! 

Recently, a campus-wide email announced that I was stepping down as department chair—and suddenly, the retirement congratulations started pouring in. But the message never said I was retiring. Why did everyone assume that’s what it meant? And now that I think about it, people have been asking me about retirement for a while now—friends, colleagues, neighbors. I am not even thinking about retirement…. except maybe for retirement planning books I have been reading.  And, yeah, I listen to a podcast about psychologists who are contemplating retirement.  I also joined an affinity group for my professional organization with retiring psychologists.  But other than that, I hardly think about retirement 😊, so why are people asking me if I will retire? I am only 61 years old.  Here's the thing - we don't ask just anyone about retirement. We ask people who look like they are old enough to retire. Do I look like I am old enough to retire?  It didn’t start that way.

You see, for all of my life (well, apparently not ALL of my life), I looked very young for my age. Consider these two experiences from my rookie faculty days:  I'll never forget walking into a faculty committee meeting. Before I could even take a seat, someone blocked my path and said, 'This meeting is for faculty members.  I said, “I am a faculty member.  My name is Beth Dietz”.  I knew why she stopped me.  I did not look old enough to be a faculty member.  To be sure, this picture of me appeared in the campus newspaper when I was promoted and tenured (I was 36 years old). Looking back on it now, no wonder people assumed I looked more like a student than a faculty member. I recall

another time when I pulled into a parking space in the section of the parking lot reserved for “Faculty and Staff.”  I was no sooner out of my car when the person who parked a few spaces down was at my door, letting me know in no uncertain terms that this area of the parking lot was reserved for faculty!  But I was faculty.  Why can’t people see that?  Oh yeah, because I looked like I was 12. My appearance didn’t just affect assumptions about my age—it also played into deeper gendered expectations about authority and professionalism.

Ugh, I hated that.  It was challenging enough to be a female professor, where I was frequently referred to as Miss or, more simply, by my first name, “Beth, I missed class last week, so I need to take the exam this week.” My male colleagues rarely complained that they were called anything but “Dr.”.  When you are taught by someone who looks more like your little sister, well, no wonder I was rarely addressed as “Dr.”.   I also didn’t like that I got carded all the time. I was old enough to drink at 18, so why am I still being carded at 35?

I rarely got sympathy for my youthful looks from anyone.  “Someday, you will appreciate that you look so young.”  I didn’t doubt that someday I would appreciate it, but not that day…or the next.  I wanted gray hair.  I wanted wrinkles.  I wanted to look old.  I wanted RESPECT. That’s really what it was.  I just wanted to be respected and thought looking old would get me that respect. Instead, it’s getting me pushed right out the door.

I am not sure when I started to “look my age.” Sure, I am mostly gray now, and I have wrinkles and jowls. Being department chair for four years probably aged me more than I realized. To be fair, I do not fear aging or looking older. But I guess I didn’t expect the stereotypes to be applied so soon. According to the U.S. Census Bureau (2021), the median retirement age is 64 for men and 62 for women. Okay, so maybe people assume I will retire soon because I am close to the average retirement age.  However, for professors in higher education, the American Association of University Professors (AAUP, 2020) reports that a significant portion of faculty retire between 65 and 70, with some continuing into their 70s. Yes, I am close to 65 but nowhere near 70.

It’s ironic—and infuriating—how quickly societal scripts flip on us. For decades, I fought the "young woman" label, craving the privilege that ties competence to age (and, let’s be honest, to masculinity). Now, seemingly overnight, I’ve been typecast as "retirement-ready"—not because of my plans, but because of a few gray hairs and the assumption that older faces get shown the door.

Social psychology explains this as shifting standards bias -  the same traits (youth/age) are interpreted differently depending on context. At 30, my baby face made me "unqualified"; at 61, it’s presumed I’m "done." We don’t just see age—we have a script for it, often unconsciously. And the bias is gendered: studies show men are more likely to be viewed as "seasoned" with age, while women are pushed toward "obsolete" earlier. Case in point: the median retirement age for women in the U.S. is 62 (U.S. Census Bureau, 2021), yet professors—especially women—are often asked years before they intend to leave (AAUP, 2020).

So here’s my question: Who decided I’ve aged out of my career—and why does their timeline override mine? Maybe it’s time to retire the stereotypes instead. 

Here’s my plan: I’ll retire when I want to. Until then, I’ll keep teaching, keep writing, and maybe—just maybe—help rewrite the script.