The other morning at the crack I was at Starbucks, buying a couple of chocolate croissants, a Frappuccino and some juice for my kids who were coming home from a trip on an overnight bus.
Standing in front of me was a chatty lady that was also on an early morning teen-related mission of heading to a swim meet. Based on the activity, her willingness to pair skinny jeans with New Balance running shoes (hullo, comfort AND style in one ensemble!) and her cute but easy pixie ‘do, I figured we were both about the same age.
She, on the other hand, exclaimed in genuine disbelief about me being old enough to have teenagers. That somehow I must’ve been a baby when I started having babies. And how good it was for me, although she could never pull it off.
Initially I was flattered — I mean, who among us in our youth-obsessed culture doesn’t want to be mistaken for an ingénue? — but as she headed out the door, blowing on her steaming non-fat latte, I got pissed.
Not at her for trying to be nice to me, but at her for disparaging herself because clearly we had the same half-century or so in our rear view mirrors.