It’s hard to see it now…

I’m genuinely curious how old people think I am when they see me.

For the most part, I get the impression people think I’m much younger than I am. It could have a lot to do with my height (4′ 11.5″). I don’t even register on most “adult” height charts. They all start at five-feet. Every time I get measured at the doctor, the nurse always double and often triple checks because I can’t possibly be that short.

No really.    I am.

Yes, yes, it’s very hilarious.

Anyway.

I mean, I do have the sense of humor of a teenage boy, tend to wear stickers on my forehead, and have a penchant for arguing with stuffed animals, so…

On the flip side, I have an extremely low tolerance for blatant stupidity, I get excited for new appliances, and sitting at home on a Saturday night is way more appealing than going out, which all suggest I am, in fact, old.

 

(The work of Bob. Because you need to have some fun when you’re assembling 680 pounds of MDF in a single weekend.)

When we bought our furniture back in October, the sales lady guessed we were twenty-six and it took a great deal of effort not to laugh out loud. Though I did thank her for thinking I’m that young. (Even if you couldn’t pay me any amount of money to go back to my twenties.)

Recently—and by recently, I mean…sometime in the last six months—I was told I’m “still young” in terms of changing my mind about having kids. I’m pretty sure she had no idea how old I really am. Because in terms of having kids? I’m on the too old end of the spectrum.

Alternatively…

When I worked at Menards in high school, customers called me MA’AM all the time. And my older co-workers were all surprised to find out I was still in high school because I didn’t act like the other teenagers working there. (read: not whiny or lazy…even though I totally am)

Then there was the radiology tech that thought Bob was MY SON and not my husband. I know Bob looks young for his age, but MY SON!? The first picture I ever saw of my Robert before we met face-to-face I did think he looked fifteen…but still…

When we got married, friends of my in-laws (who knew neither of us) commented on our wedding pictures that Bob looked “way too young” to get married. Nobody said anything about me, which made me wonder how big of an age gap they thought there was between us. (He’s three years younger, for the record.)

 

  

(The most recent picture I have of the two of us is from 2012. (*sigh*…Oh Red Rocks…) Should probably do something about that.)

I don’t actually care how old people think I am. And I’m pretty sure random strangers care even less how old I actually am.

I’m just weirdly curious.

Because these are the things my brain fixates on.

I’ll continue to laugh at lube jokes, argue with the stuffed mouse sitting on my desk, and get really excited about end tables and lamps. All the while muttering to myself about the increasing number of gray hairs I keep finding.

This is my brain and welcome to it.

I have a really high forehead.

Gonna Get Better
Better Than Ezra

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