No, Walz isn't old. He's 60 (which is the new 40).

When is someone considered "old" these days?

Joe Biden is old. Now that he's dropped out of the race, we all can agree Donald Trump is old. Kamala Harris looks youthful. Tim Walz appears oldish, but he's only about six months older than Harris.

"How can these two people be the same age?" one poster asked on the social media platform X, putting up a side-by-side of a touched-up, softly lit headshot of Harris and a more pedestrian mug of a white-haired, smiling, balding and wrinkled Walz. (He's 60, she's 59.)

Our governor, who was announced as Harris' vice presidential running mate, acknowledges the disparity. The former teacher attributes his graying appearance to having supervised a high school lunchroom for 20 years.

"You do not leave that job with a full head of hair. Trust me," he posted.

Walz should not be expected to look like Brad Pitt (also 60). But we are living in an era where some of us in middle age or older have no grip on reality about how we should look or how close mortality truly is. Black and foreboding "over the hill" balloons used to be common fare for when we hit our 50th birthday, and rightfully so.

Today, turning 50 feels like something to celebrate on the path to becoming an adult, like getting your driver's license or finding your own apartment.

"Fifty is the new 40 is the new 30 is the new 20 is the new infant," as my friend Nichol likes to say.

This collective denial of aging can be seen everywhere. Women in their 50s are still rocking long caramel-blond highlights and midriff tops (even though the seemingly geriatric Golden Girls characters of the 1980s were roughly the same age). Although the pressure to discover a fountain of youth for men might be less intense than for women, many are still guzzling protein shakes and receiving testosterone injections to cure low energy. Camera filters on our phones and Zoom present our best, smooth-skinned selves. And who among us over 40 hasn't discarded the telltale years from our professional résumés?

This month, I'll be the same age as Shakira. While watching her perform the halftime show at Copa América, I can tell you, her hips do lie. It's implausible that those hip bones are 47 years old.

"I don't feel old," says I, and everyone else who's ever been startled by the reflection in the mirror.

But that's part of human nature. No matter their age, people define "old" as somewhere beyond their current stage in life.

A longitudinal study out of Germany published this spring found that old age apparently begins at 75, if you ask people who are 64. But when they are 74, people say the onset of old age is around 77.

And over time, the threshold for old has historically shifted upward, the researchers found. When 65-year-old-olds were asked the same question decades ago ― "At what age would you describe someone as old? — they said 71, rather than 75.

It's not clear if people are recalibrating their concept of old because they're having more positive associations with older adults — seeing them live healthier, longer lives and postponing retirement. Every time I get mopped up on the pickleball court by a white-haired lady in a double knee brace, I'm relieved to know I still have at least 30 good years ahead of me.

Another reason for the shift could be that now more than ever, people consider aging as something undesirable, off in the far distant future.

Calling someone old is still a slight, to the point that no one can agree on what is the proper term to describe people in their later years. "Elderly" connotes frailty and feebleness. "Golden years" puts too much of a shine on imminent organ failure. "Senior citizen," which sounds respectful and even dignified to me, offends people in their 60s and 70s. "Senior" isn't much better, I've been told by a former coworker in his 60s, because it's just shorthand for the apparently ageist slur.

Biden didn't do us any favors when he stayed in the race as long as he did, cementing people's stereotypes about aging and competence.

A commentary in the New York Times recently urged Harris to pick Walz for her vice presidential nominee. Like any curious Minnesotan, I glanced at the reader comments. Many were kind and supportive for Walz but noted that he's "too old" for the part. One who seemed to be excited by Walz's chances said he would offer a "friendly, older fatherly figure to bookend the youthful energy" of Harris. Ouch.

When I see Walz sporting his L.L. Bean barn coat and relaxed-fit dad (or grandpa?) jeans, I see a man who's comfortable looking his age. The lines on his face come from the worry of protecting Minnesotans during COVID-19, and the glee from being swarmed by schoolkids when he signed a free-lunch bill into law. When I'm the age of Walz, will I roll with the punches with a sense of humor as he seems to be doing? Or will I dye my skin orange and brag about my golf skills?

Maybe Walz has figured out something that the rest of us need to hear: Looking old isn't anything to fight. As his national prominence rises, may his handlers let this man continue to look his age.