From time to time, I’m the coolest person in the world. When I put on my favorite pair of $2 sunglasses — bam, I’m unstoppable. When I’m driving back from getting groceries, if I crack open the window and play music at the lowest possible volume — bam, everybody knows my name. When a gentle breeze lifts my hair — bam, my face is on billboards in Times Square — my hair is slapping me in the face – bam, my face is on a billboard ad for allergy pills.
Like any emotion, this feeling of being the coolest person ever eventually fades. Sometimes, it wanes over time. Other times, it’s immediately extinguished by my neighborhood pharmacist.
“You know you look like a baby, right?”
Here we go again. Don’t … show … the pain … I force out some vocal spasms that resemble chuckles.
My mind races with hundreds of snappy comebacks. For example, “You know you’re a meanie, right?”
I remember the day when my second-grade class learned about “I” statements, where you — sorry, I — express feelings without placing blame. I should rephrase it and say, “I feel like someone here is a real meanie.” But alas, my father told me not to curse.
Instead, I say, “Thanks!” That’ll show ‘em. Gratitude — the zinger of all zingers.
I am a strong, independent woman. I thank people when they make sure I’m aware of my babyface. Imagine if I had no idea! I’d be waltzing around the pharmacy with a confident little smile on my babyface, believing I could pass as an adult. I’d be playing Truman in “The Truman Show.” The pharmacist was trying to rescue me. She’s the character telling Truman, “Hey…just so you know, your life is staged. None of your relationships are real. Say hi to the cameras.” I have yet to find those years of footage.
The pharmacist looked proud to have given me the gift of knowledge. “Do I look like a baby, too?” She asked.
“Yes, definitely!” It would have been rude of me not to reciprocate.
I’ve been alerted that I don’t just have a babyface at the pharmacy. The bank was stressful enough before it turned into a fun game where the tellers bet on the ages of their customers.
“Eight,” shouted one teller as I ducked under an empty maze of line barriers. I heard more numbers.
“Twelve.”
“No, definitely eight.”
When I handed them my ID, the group of tellers reacted as if hundreds of dollars were on the line. Some were defeated. Others were giddy in disbelief.
“You look like you’re twelve!”
“No, eight,” interjected another teller.
“Keep bargaining for a lower age,” I thought. “I’ll become younger if you say it loudly enough.”
I’m not safe anywhere these days. I recently had a procedure done on my tooth enamel. As the dental assistant poked at my gums with metal sticks, she exclaimed, “she still looks like a baby.”
“Am I supposed to be under?” I wondered. “Too late now.”
At first, my dentist stood up for me, saying that that’s probably not what people my age want to hear. “She does have a proportionally large tongue, though.”
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