Last Friday I was mistaken for a 29 year old.
I know, I know. As someone who has not yet reached a quarter-century this is the ultimate insult. The perpetrator may as well have called me 40. It was a real kick-in-the-face-while-I’m-down comment considering the week I’d been having, but I handled it with grace. (i.e.: I politely corrected the Barista, and then went home and sobbed over a bowl of Chunky Monkey while slathering anti-wrinkle cream all over my face and “staying hydrated”. I am nothing if not classy.)
Still, this left me shattered. It took a weekend of constant reflection checking (Side note to my parents, your spoons are not nearly shiny enough) and increasingly annoyed assurance from friends and family that I don’t look a day over * insert age here * to move past this degradation.
By Monday I started to see the humour. By Tuesday I alternated between snickering to myself and expressing concern over the barista’s deteriorating eye sight. (Does Starbucks offer benefits for optometry? Does she have a Costco membership so she can buy inexpensive lenses? Maybe even a monocle? Should I slip her the Zenioptical website information?)
It was with this newfound appreciation for my situation and an eagerness to share in my humiliations that I made a crucial mistake.
I told this story to my co-workers.
You see, dear reader, there is no audience more unsympathetic when complaining about being mistaken for a 29 year old and detailing my upcoming quarter life crisis than a group of women past their 50th year.
Their laughter at my expense was well deserved. Their emails about Senior Care Homes and Cognitive Testing for my “advancing years” was not.
At least I learned a valuable lesson.
Choose your audience.
Come on. Tell the truth and shame the devil, this face doesn’t look a day over 22! … Does it?
Perhaps I get too much sun.