I’ll be thirty next year.
At five feet tall, I feel like a little kid when I go to the grocery store. Women who are taller than my husband will pass, giving me the same smile mothers give toddlers when they do something cute. Aww…That teenager is out buying her own groceries. Good for her!
I got some pretty dirty looks when I was pregnant. Especially on the day my transparent decided he wanted to buy Goo a car seat/stroller ensemble. The women in line behind us looked like they wanted to spit on me.
I’ve been told that I should embrace the fact that I look like I’m twelve. But nobody in the real world can take me seriously. I’m not sure if I should buy some stilts, or carry around a large lollipop and a teddy bear.
Sure. In a decade I will probably giggle when I get carded for something. Then again, I don’t smoke or drink, so the only thing I’ll ever get carded for is an R-rated movie. And since my husband is six-one and looks only a few years younger than his age, he could probably pass as my guardian or something.
Yesterday, I looked at, really looked at, my Twitter profile picture (see above). I could almost hear the Tweeters Tweet-Tweeting.
Aw…she wants to grow up to be an author. So cute!!!
Damn, I like that picture. My camera phone doesn’t know what pores are, or mom-wrinkles, or the end-of-the-day-face-sag. It also has cool filters to hide the flurry of gray hairs growing among my bangs.
Gray hairs. Because it’s not enough to look like I belong in a smelly dorm room at thirty.
I think I might buy the stilts.