While vocalizing my annoyance that my pattern teacher's tardiness to class was causing me to be away from my daughter an extra 30 unnecessary minutes, the girl sitting in front of me whipped around and said, "You have a daughter? How old are you?"
"How old do you think I am?" I made her feel uneasy.
"Maybe 21 or 22?"
Too tired to think of a clever retort, and a little surprised she thought 22 was astonishingly young to have a baby, I just settled on the truth,
"I'm 28, but thanks".
And there you have it...I'm officially old.
Not because I'm 28--heavens Oprah says I won't be confidant enough even to know who I really am, or what I want until at least 45...I'm basically a baby in Oprah years,
but because I was glad that someone thought I looked younger than I really was, and because instead of being relieved that my teacher's tardiness meant 30 minutes of goofing off, I was seriously bugged that she was wasting my time and money.
I guess there is hope for me becoming a mature adult yet.
Tardiness aside, my class is lovely. It's a great outlet for my imagination and its wildly fun to have a textbook I can't wait to crack and spend some quality time with.