(First of all, I want to say that I know it’s been a while. I have a good excuse. I moved. And not just a little ways down the street. I moved countries. I moved from America back to my home and native land, Canada. So, it’s been busy, and I’ve been frazzled – and also, very COLD.
But, now I’m slightly less frazzled, and excited to get back in the metaphorical saddle.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I know I don’t tell you enough, but I really appreciate you taking the time out of your busy day to read with your eyes what I’ve written with my fingers. You’re a wonderful human being. Don’t let anyone tell you any different…
I’d tumble for ya.)
Okay, now for something completely different…
A few weeks ago, I was at work, minding my own business, working on an excel spreadsheet, trying to keep my face neutral (instead of my usual “bitchy resting face”), when my co-workers started talking about their ages.
To give you context: My co-workers are male, in their mid 20s and early 30s. They are young, sprightly and optimistic… They obviously haven’t felt the stinging pain of life, yet.
One especially young, sprightly, optimistic “man” said: “I’m 22.”
I tried to pretend I was very focused on my spreadsheet. I didn’t like where this was going.
Another chimed in: “I’m 29.”
Another: “I’m turning 27 next week.”
They all turned toward me. I pretended to be very focused on my spreadsheet, my eyes mere inches from the computer screen.
“How old are you, Kim?”
“How old are you?”
“How old are you?”
Geeeeeeeeezzzzzzz. Fine, I’ll look at them, say something like “a woman never tells” and then continue to crunch numbers like some sort of number-crunching monster.
I turned to them, and I saw it… They were assessing my age.
They were looking at various aspects of my face, hair, wardrobe choices, and my body… and were determining how old I looked.
I don’t like this for a lot of reasons:
My face suggests I have lived a long, full, smiling with my eyes kind of life; my hair looks like Hilary Clinton circa 1998, my wardrobe choices suggest that I lived through the 80s recession, and (full disclosure), my body shape suggests that I have bore many, many children (when in fact, I just like to eat food).
I prepared for the worst.
One of them guessed: “29 or 30?”
Initially, I was very flattered. 29 or 30 suggests youth and vitality that I can only summon into mind if I look at a Facebook photo album.
Then I realized, when someone says 29 or 30, they are accounting for the fact that if they are accurate you will be hurt and insulted… so they kindly and politely subtract at least five years.
Before I could respond, another young one piped up: “I thought you were in your late 20s, but then I saw your neck.”
He continued: “A woman’s neck always tells her age…The lines on her neck are like lines on a tree. The more lines, the older she is. Based on your neck, I’d say… mid-30s.”
My co-workers all nodded in agreement.
Damn you neck… giving me away.