You guys have seen those cute little charts with the, ‘This is what I do, this is what my family thinks I do, this it what my friends think I do’, right?
I am going to make one for me… *clears throat*
What my friends think I do….
What my readers think I do….
My real age….
But I sometimes act like I’m …
But I recently discovered that people believe that my true age is…
Yup, that’s me. Really 111. I’m sorry all my readers that thought they could relate to me as a crazy chick in my 30’s. The gig is up. I’m 111 years old.
Okay, I’m really not and I would like to do what I can to stop the rumors of my old age now.
I’m hoping that other people have friends like this and I’m not the only one suffering a life of friends with no filter of offensive speak. I feel like the basis of the Bridget Jones character of a hapless singleton was created from conversations just like these.
I was in a local restaurant, waiting to pick up my to go order. I stared off at photos and decorations on the wall to pass the time and to avoid eye contact with others who were waiting.
“Hey! Mel! How are you?”
“Hey J! How are you?”
“Good. Did you hear my sister had a baby?”
*This is a subject I hate to discuss. This is generally followed by a display of newborn pictures, at which point I debate on telling the person that baby looks like a mix of an alien and a little old man*
“No. Had no idea.”
“Yeah, think it will be her last one.”
“Rough delivery?” *Is that the right thing to say? Or was she just so shocked that her baby did indeed look like it came from StarWars and she has sworn off any further procreation.*
“No, she’s just too old to be having any more babies. It’s dangerous at her age.”
*Note to reader, his sister is a big whopping two years older than me. So, I’m thinking he assumes all women over the age of 25 have a uterus that looks like this….
“She’s not that old. Women have babies up to their fifies all the time these days.”
“It’s dangerous though. She shouldn’t have any more babies at her age.”
“Well, you never know.”
“You’re like thirty three now, right?”
I can see him obviously judging how soon I’ll be breaking a hip. The combination of my age and lactose intolerance has definitely set my body up for not enough calcium and fragile bones.
“Thirty two, actually. I turn thirty three towards the end of the year.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. You’re not married yet, are you?”
I’m sorry that I can’t drench that last sentence with the tone that came along with it. You’re not married yet, are you? I almost felt like, nah-nah-nah-nah-boo-boo or I know you are, but what am I should have came next. Who announces to the general public that the woman you are carrying on a conversation with has old maid stamped all over her?
“You know, you are lucky that you say those things to me, because I think the average unmarried woman in her thirties would have beat you for that.”
He giggled. “Have you talked to Rhonda lately?”
“It’s been a few months. I’ve been awful at keeping up with people.”
“I talked to her the other night. She’s doing good.”
Oh dear God, I’m old, barren and a bad friend. Does anyone else want to throw their two cents in on this conversation?
“I hope that redheaded girl ordered something from the Weight Watcher’s menu.”
Okay, just kidding. That last sentence didn’t happen, but my brain was prepping me for that to be the next topic.
What gets me about these conversations, is the people on the other end of them aren’t any further advanced in the relationship world than I am. Why am I the one getting the ‘Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock’ speech?
I grabbed my order from the counter and made my way to the door.
J followed me to open doors, obviously a sign of pity on my poor old, unmarried, childless soul. I guess there is a small shrivel of chivalry left in the world after all.