Age is a hopelessly relative matter, don't you think? I can recall being twenty-two and working with people who were twenty-five, thirty-four, forty. I also remember secretly feeling startled when someone who was twenty-six would utter an inclusive statement such as, "Oh, that person is our age," because in my mind, the gap between twenty-two and twenty-six was vast and wide.
In the words of S.E. Hinton, that was then, this is now.
Recently I listened as a coworker in her earliest twenties told a story about another girl in her early twenties: "She's sooo immature. I mean, she's twenty-two, but she's a YOUNG twenty-two."
The first time I heard her make this remark I brushed it off. The second time she repeated it I glanced around to see if anyone else in the room over the age of twenty five thought it a ridiculous observation to make. A young twenty-two...
At the risk of sounding geriatric, is there any other kind?
Since moving to Boston Hubby and I have been asked for i.d. almost religiously, which has been quite a sunny little ego boost. Last night we went to Vinnie T's on Boylston for a late night supper. When we ordered our drinks, however, we were not asked for identification. Well, not at first, that is.
When our waiter came by to tell us our drinks would be out shortly, he casually asked if he could see Hubby's i.d.
"It's funny," my husband replied, fishing around in his pocket for his license, "we were just saying this is the first time since we moved here that we haven't been carded."
"You don't wanna see my i.d.?" I kidded, instantly regretting it.
"No, you're all set."
(Hmmm? What was that, now?)
Our waiter, who was probably barely twenty-one himself, smiled apologetically. "Ya, we're supposed to ask to see i.d. for anyone who looks thirty-six or under."
(WHAT THE...???!!!)
"Are you saying that I look thirty-six?" I asked, trying my darndest to inject as merry and lighthearted a tone as I could possibly muster. And mind you, I am extremely pre-menstrual.
"No, I uh, oh, I probably just made it worse, didn't I? Um...can I see your i.d.?"
This was obviously a most miserable, too late attempt at placating me. I thanked him nonetheless, the tail end of the wretched conversation still echoing in the caverns of my elderly old brain.
Thirty-six?! The nerve!
As you might suspect, after this our dining experience turned kind of pear shaped. The focaccia was stale; the calamari soggy; my pasta with cream sauce was, well...it tasted like a warmed pint of half and half had been dumped over penne. G Ramsey would've had himself a field day.
Hubby did his very best to ease my wounded pride, assuring me I looked youthful and pretty and did not look older than I was...not in the least! Also, I was dressed up and he was dressed down in a sweatshirt and jeans. It was quite possible the impetus of our server's rotten faux pas was the discrepancy in our conflicting outfits. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)
In addition to being hurtful and clueless, our waiter was also terribly inefficient. When it came time to pay the bill, our cash situation left us with the option of leaving either twenty two or eighteen percent gratuity. In the end we decided to go with the latter. After all, this youngster had verbally kicked me where it counts, right in the cojones. He would not be getting twenty percent.
Insult my writing; insult my singing; insult my choices in footwear, television viewing or interior design. But don't, I repeat, DO NOT tell me I look seven years older than I actually am.
Cheeky effing bastard.
As we walked home I gave my leftovers to a homeless guy sitting outside a Chinese food joint. His reply?
Thank you ma'am.
Ma'am. Apparently even my friendly neighborhood crackhead thinks I look old.
