My Minneapolis Summer: Acting My Age

 

When I was in sixth grade, I was asked if I was a senior in high school. When I was a senior in high school and told someone I was “graduating in May,” they asked me what University I’d soon be an alumni of. Now that I am legitamately a senior in college, I have a new, interesting problem: I keep getting mistaken for a high school student. This is an interesting twist of evnts, becauseI’ve never had an issue looking my age. Whether it be because I’ve moved to a location where people are analyzing my bone structure for the first time, or I’ve been traveling a lot, to places where cracked out 21 year olds typically look to be in their 40s, I’m having a huge increase in the amount of people failing to identify me as a 20-something.

 

This typically happens in three general situations:

 

1. Age Requirement: I was on an airplane coming home from Peru and thanks to my Mother’s obsessive seat-picking complex, was seated in a delightful Exit Aisle seat. My little brother, with his quarter inch beard, sat next to me. Little Brother. He’s younger, okay? I’m the older one. The flight attendant spots us and quietly walks over and taps me on the shoulder. “Um, honey? I don’t mean to offend you, but there’s an age requirement to sit in these seats. Are you over 15?” I must have looked shocked because she quickly recovered with a, “I’m just checking because you look so young. It’s a good thing, really!” I nodded, and politely mumured that I was 21. She didn’t even talk a glance at Jacob, who was quietly holding back his little giggle. I don’t mind looking younger (I guess I can wait on buying that wrinkle recovery formula Cosmo says to start using when you hit 20 to be proactive), but 15? I don’t even look like I can buy lotto tickets or porn yet?

 

2. New Introductions: My most recent example of this was at a yummy breakfast place in Chicago. My super awesome and happy boyfriend, his family, and I went to brunch to satisfy my intense obession with pancakes–my mom likes to track airplane tickets, I like pancakes. Weirdness is genetic. Also genetic is our extremely small bladder size, so after a 1/8 cup of coffee, I found myself in line for the bathroom. A gentleman was in front of me and as our wait was a little long, he struck up a conversation:

 

“So, what brings you to Chicago?” I don’t usually enjoy talking to strangers in line, especially with a bathroom so close and if I’m in line for a bathroom, usually making sure I don’t pee my pants takes high priority over being chatted up by random men, but I was in an especially good mood since I knew I’d be snagging some of Boyfriend’s Bluebery pancakes any second. So, I decided to do this man a great favor and participate in his small talk. “Just visiting.”

 

“Oh, really?” he replied. “Where are you from orginally?”

 

“Minnesota by way of Michigan,” I answered gracefully. “I live in Minneapolis now.”

 

“Oh that’s great. So, are you doing an college visits while you’re here?” I stalled at this, and mulled it over in my brain. College visits? I think I wrapped up that rodeo in 2007, big guy.

 

“Um, er, uh, no. I’m actually a senior–in College.”

 

“REALLY?” he was quite enthusiastic about this discovery. “You’re a senior? Wow. I thought you were in high school. You look so young! I mean, that’s a good thing. You’ll look young your whole life. Think of the money you’ll save on make up.”

 

Yes, random bathroom age guesser. I get through the day by considering my massive savings on Revlon Eye Liner because of how youthful I look. How did you know?

 

3. The bouncer at the Bar: I guess, in the issue of full disclosure with my faithful readership, I should admitt that I look extremely young in my ID picture. In fact, my best friend/sister/possible distant cousin from the Cherokee Indian tribe, informed me once that I look older in my 16 year old driver’s license picture than my 21. I’m sporting a headband and a cardigan and my hair is pretty long, so I can see how she came to that conclusion.

 

So, I show up the bar with just my ID. I rarely take my credit card with me because I don’t want to spend money on alcohol at a bar when for the price of one shot, I could buy a pint of Burnette’s at the grocery store and call it a weekend. So, I’m a little bit blurry eyed already and as I hand my ID to the big, burly man who is the bar’s version of Peter at the Pearly Gates, he looks at it critically. The more legitimate the bar, the longer his stare. In East Lansing, it’s often been handed to the second bouncer, the back up ID checker, who usually verifies it, stamps my hand, and in I go.

 

Unless, of course, the bouncer just isn’t sure. Then the questions start. What’s your full name? What’s your address? What’s your astrological sign? And then, Do you have a credit card or another form of ID so we can verify this?

 

Insert long sigh. I hand over my student ID since I’m sans credit card (thanks Cliff, for making me a thrifty missy) and finally, I’m let in. It’s quite the process. I usually have to buy the cheapest shot on the menu juts to recover from such an ordeal.

 

After this recent weekend in Chicago with Bathroom Age Guesser, I started wondering if maybe I did have a bit of a baby face. I’ve never actually put much thought into it, which is an anomoly in itself because I’m a complete over-analyzer of everything and anything. So, what vibe am I giving off that makes me seem like a minor?

 

I have a feeling it’s a combo. The first is that it’s hard in general to guess a girl’s age. A 12 year old can look 25 and a 25 year old, if she’s short and thin, can look 15. I have long, long hair that hangs halfway down my back, a standard look for the pre-teen crowd. I don’t wear a lot (if any, usually) make up because I like the way I look without it (unless I’m at work, then I paint that stuff on. Nobody looks good under florescent lighting). I’m a skinny thing, thanks to my super metabolism (Grandma Flood/England, I thank you so much for that). And also genetically speaking, my mother doesn’t look anywhere her age, so perhaps this fate was destined. Neither does my father. I’ve had friends ask if my Dad was my brother and I even had a guy once say that I was perfect wife material because I’d probably always look young, “just like your mom.”

 

Still, at 21 and a mere 8 classes short of graduation, I’d really like to start looking like I can watch an R-rated movie without parental supervision. Which means I’ll probably have to cut my hair at some point (maybe short enough that I don’t look like the Duggar’s forgotten child) and maybe I’ll start wearing an MSU alumni shirt around so people get the message. And I’ll put wrinkle protector in my bathroom. Just so you know, it looks like I need it.