Adventures in Real Life
You're sitting in a crowded sandwich shop. It's lunch-hour. There's people everywhere you look, squeezed into tiny booths, about to spill out onto the floor. You're waiting around for your to-go order. Then you notice all the high school boys lurking around with their friends, glancing at you. Loitering around next to you. Not-so-much-glancing-as-staring at you.
You're acutely aware of the attention. You're obviously not interested in the opinions of people who can't vote or shoot a gun, but you're aware of it. And then it dawns on you: In this crowded room, all the teenaged boys are staring at you. The broom stick in skinny jeans and blonde hair that they came in with get less attention than you. You come to the conclusion that either, A) you're just really hot today, or B) you look like a fifteen-year-old.
You already know people think you're younger than you are. You still get carded at the liquor store. Hell, you still get carded at the movies. The last time you got into the theater without a showdown with the ticket guy was when Where the Wild Things Are came out. But fifteen? That's low, even for you.
Slowly but surely the horror sinks in. You take your sandwiches. You leave. You try not to look any of the teenagers in the eye but everywhere you turn, there they are. You try not to think about it. You're almost twenty-five, for god's sake. You're post-college. You're metal. So to make yourself feel better, you go and cut all your hair off.
Now at least you'll look an angry fifteen-year-old, by god. It's all you can ask for in life.
