I Don’t Age
Er, much, that is.
At the POPSUGAR and Simple Tour Saturday, one of the ladies in charge of the giveaway raffle asked me if I was “at least eighteen”. She had a concerned expression on her face like one a teacher may give to a kindergartner when she thinks s/he may have wet their pants, or maybe even picked their nose and put their booger on the classmate next to them. That kind of face. The kind of face that says, “If you don’t tell me what I want to hear, I’m not going to believe you.”
Those who do age like everyone else I know tell me I’m “lucky” and “will appreciate it later” and “should be happy”.
Would you be happy if you were sick with strep throat and trying to buy cough drops to make it through the work day but you couldn’t because the cashier thought your driver’s license was a fake ID?
Would you appreciate being pulled over by a policeman for being out during the week passed the minor’s curfew?
Would you feel “lucky” to be excluded from doing things at events (kind of similar to the one I went to Saturday) because people didn’t believe your age?
It’s not fun, and I don’t appreciate it.
Anyway, here is some proof. Years 2006-2012 are iffy. I mean, I literally look THE SAME in all of these, so it’s not my fault.
Do you see it? I look the same in all of those.
And below we have this year, taken recently:
It doesn’t matter what I wear — I mean, unless I wear makeup, of course — I always look below my age.
(That’s twenty-three, by the way.)