Tuesday, September 16, 2008


Nearly all the people I spend time with in Sacto are anywhere from 2-30 years older than me.  I am almost always the "baby" in the group.  So when a few people asked how old I was turning this 15th, I would shuffle my feet and whisper "27" knowing that the response would unequivocally be "oh, you're so young!  You're practically a baby!"  

When a 40-something woman calls you young, you do not argue.  Basic rule.  And I have been following it diligently as the subject has come up.  Here's the thing, I am, for the first time actually feeling the number.  27 loomed up before me and I tried my best to pshaw it into the background.   But it dug in and insisted on staying.  This is the first year that my joking assertion that if you act like you are anywhere from 4-22, then your real age is affectively lowered by this perceived and displayed youth.  And I am still consistently getting carded, given the occasional comment on a well maintained face, and yes, young men still catcall me from their cars.  The stupid surface shit we all fall so hard for.  The stuff that doesn't last and shouldn't count.  It might be best if I just enjoy it while it lasts.  I do worry though and I have no idea what is going to happen when the gal at Trader Joe's doesn't request my ID when I buy $5 wine and stinky cheese.  

I am feeling old.  At least older than ever before, and by a measurable amount.  What I notice is that I don't want to be old.  Why?  What changed from last year?  I have not been able to put my finger on what is bothering me so much.  Perhaps it is the number itself.  27 seems awfully close to 30.  And 30... isn't that when you are really a grown-up?  Aren't I supposed to have more figured out by then?  Shitness, I have a lot of work to do in the next 3 years.  Either that or I need to act like a child in increasing amounts of time to shift my "real age."

On a completely separate note, I think all would be well if I lived here:

Big windows, big bookshelves and sea green accent furnishings.  All it needs is a pyrenees puppy dog asleep at my feet and jazz guitar wafting from somewhere in the house...

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