Don’t worry, this is not another mindless paean to my stunningly wonderful, prodigiously talented children. Instead, it’s a rant on age. At the Boy Scout Spaghetti Dinner last Saturday, a man who bugs me endlessly by always addressing me as “Dick’s wife,”* said I should consider myself “hit on.” In other words, that I was looking good. I said, don’t you think I’m just a bit too young for you (he is 50-something), and he said I must be about 30.
Do I look 30 to you? And he just looked at me. Damn. Where is my solace? When, with a wounded heart, etc, etc? Into the fine lines (at least I hope they’re still fine) on my face, a friend I value enormously rubs the dust of my self-delusion. Tara said she loved the pictures in our recent slideshow, that we all look grown up, even me. waaaaaahhh. People, I will not be 30 for 2 months, 5 days and 7 hours. I don’t wanna be grown up. I just want to have fun.
*I tried to show him how annoying this is by once calling him “Brother ____’s Ex-Wife’s Ex-Husband (knowing he has been divorced more than once), but the exquisite subtlety of my riposte was lost on him.
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Dude! I was talking about your hair – its way longer now.
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