Seasoned

All was going well—until she dropped the question.

The kind of question that immediately makes your soul leave your body and file a complaint with HR.

We were halfway through a very professional, very rehearsed Zoom interview. I had nailed the “Tell me about yourself” part, successfully threaded the needle on “biggest weakness” (I chose “I care too much,” because I hate myself), and even got a few smiles when I mentioned leading a team through a reorg, a flood, and a surprise all-hands meeting hosted by a raccoon in the breakroom.

I was in the zone. Locked in.

And then she tilted her head, leaned slightly forward, and hit me with:

“So… how much longer do you plan to work?”

Silence.

I blinked. Twice.

I looked at her name again: Kayla.

Of course it was.

Now listen—I’m no rookie. I’ve been around long enough to know this question dances in the dark alley of HR violations. This is the kind of question they warn you about in those company compliance videos with stock footage of suspicious handshakes and overly enthusiastic nodding.

But there it was. Floating between us. Ungodly. Unapologetic.

I had a choice:

A) Politely point out that this question might—just maybe—reek of ageism, or

B) Answer it with the kind of honesty that comes from surviving three recessions, two corporate buyouts, and a boss who once asked if I “do Slack.”

I chose honesty. Because I didn’t come this far, live through dial-up internet, and sit through 40-minute icebreakers to play it safe.

I smiled and said:

“As long as the lights are on, my brain’s firing, and coffee exists—I plan to keep going. I’m not here to ride out the clock. I’m here to build something worth setting my alarm for.”

She blinked. I could hear her mouse click as she probably highlighted “possible liability” in her notes.

But I wasn’t done.

I added:

“Look, I know what you’re really asking. You want to know if I’m going to bail after a year, or if I’m just looking to coast into retirement. Let me assure you—I’m not here to coast. I’ve done the 70-hour weeks. I’ve built the decks. I’ve mentored the people who now write the job descriptions that screen me out. And guess what? I still want in. Because I still care.”

Another pause.

She finally said, “Thank you for your candor.”

Which, in corporate terms, translates to: “I was not prepared for that level of reality, and I need to speak to legal.”

I didn’t get the job.

Two days later, I received the classic rejection email:

“We were impressed by your experience, but we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.”

I wanted to reply with:

“Was it the experience or the candles on my last birthday cake that scared you?”

But I didn’t.

Instead, I poured myself a cup of coffee, updated my résumé again, and whispered to myself:

“They don’t want seasoned. They want shiny.”

But the thing about seasoning is—it’s what brings flavor. Depth. Endurance.

So no, I didn’t get the role.

But I did keep my dignity. My humor. And the knowledge that somewhere out there, a smart company will recognize that showing up at 50+ isn’t a red flag.

It’s a badge of honor.

And one day, they’ll be lucky to have me.

Until then?

I’ll keep showing up.

With experience in my pocket—and a mug full of revenge-flavored espresso.