Yesterday on the bus a high school nerd asked me if I go to ___ school. I said “what?” and laughed in his pimply face. No, I didn’t. I actually said “What?” because I didn’t hear him. I was annoyed though because I could see his awkward tall frame inching towards me the entire bus ride. He literally changed seats four times, ever moving closer and closer. I was just waiting for the inevitable conversation. But I did not expect him to think I was sixteen.
Sidenote: he liked my nailpolish.
Earlier that same exact day, while wearing the same exact clothing and everything, I went into the coffee shop near my work. They had recently switched brands of coffee from Illy to some other (better in my opinion) brand and a man was making a good-natured big deal about it, asking 45 questions. I was in no real hurry and kind of joined in on the conversation while they made my americano.
“What do you make of all this?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, I haven’t even tried it yet!” I replied, laughing.
We made small talk about coffee stuff and him being a psychiatrist for a moment or two and then he asked, completely serious, which office I worked in. And gestured to the square full of legal buildings and other fancy pants businesses where people wear suits and comb their hair daily.
I was completely taken aback. And flattered. And then confused because did he not see I’m wearing a hoodie with a bat on it?
Anyway I have no idea what I look like. And these kinds of things do not help. Am I sixteen or forty? I look sixteen and act forty? I look forty and act sixteen? I guess both are true sometimes.