By Associate Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg
Alright. Listen up, you liberal young folk, concerned editorialists, and Facebook crusaders. I get the point. You guys all think I look old. Oh please. I’m ship-shape, better than ever, and I’m not going anywhere.
I’m really just a bit disappointed, actually. Every morning, at the crack of dawn, I down a glass of protein powder. Old? Ha! After some exercise, I prepare myself a breakfast of two eggs, sausage, an organic, locally produced, and GMO-free Golden Delicious, my Omega-3 supplement, cholesterol balancer (just to keep those eggs in line!) and an eight-ounce glass of pomegranate juice. Does this really have no effect on my appearance? Was I so foolish to think feeling thirty years old would also mean I looked thirty years old?
You know, whatever, I’m over it. Insecurity about wrinkled skin is such a 40-55 thing. Kindly stop offering your dry, unappetizing leafy greens, thirty-year-old Washington Post editorialists. And who are you to call me old? Do you think I could be inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame at twenty-five? Fight gender-based discrimination at the Supreme Court? Steadfastly defend international law and institutions on a daily basis? Point out the glaring contradictions in my colleagues’ Citizens United majority opinion? So what if I’m old. Oh, and in case I didn’t I mention, I'm overseeing the production of Notorious RBG: The Sequel, lecturing at universities across the country, and training for the half-marathon, all while reading my daily amicus briefs.
So, I look old to you? Come at me, “heart failure.” Declare me bed-ridden. I’m not going anywhere. And if an aging, orange-colored slightly maniacal man with a bit of an authority problem dare tell me I look old, tell him to find me at 1 First Street—we can settle our differences outside.