LET ME PAINT A PICTURE FOR YOU REAL QUICK:
I’m in Home Depot with my husband, getting planks of wood for a basement project. Both of us are dressed in a way that says we’ve just woken up, we’re planning to go to the gym, or we’ve given up on life (why not all three?). We get our wood *snicker* and find a Home Depot guy to *cough* cut our wood. He *cough* cuts our wood and we thank him for his time. The Home Depot guy and we go our separate ways, him towards the registers and us towards the electrical items.
A little while later, I’m hanging out by the cart in the center area as my husband looks through various hardware in one of the aisles. The same Home Depot guy comes up and asks if I’m all set. I tell him I am, and he laughs and replies, “Oh, right! I remember you guys. I imagine you’re just waiting around for your …”
He trails off, looks me over, and ends with:
“Husband,” I blurt out, and the guy gives me a look that essentially says Blink twice if I should call the authorities.
“I’m 28,” I add with equal blurting.
“Oh!” he says with a laugh. “Wow! I’m sorry. You honestly look like you could be in high school.”
“Well, I’ve definitely hit the age where it’s nice to hear that I look so young, so, thank you,” I reply. Somewhere, deep down in the recesses of my conscience, my feminist side is kicking me for caring that much about looking young and then openly admitting to said caring.
“Well, have a nice day, then!” he responds before quickly going on his way.
I stand by our cart, which is already filled to the brim with *snicker* wood and *snicker?* electrical items, and just process what had happened. I’m in a baggy sweatshirt with yoga pants, no makeup, and my hair pulled back. It certainly presents a more youthful look than had I showed up in business casual with my hair properly done. But, regardless, looking like a teenager isn’t necessarily a bad thing: I’ve always said I would never go back to being 17 again, unless I were allowed to bring what I know now with me. I just wish my knees looked 17 again. There’s a few LCL and PCL injuries I’d gladly let them forget as they time traveled back.
But one thought quickly snapped me out of my reverie:
“If he thought I was a teenager and that my husband was my father: how old did he think my husband is?”
I mean, he’s only five-and-some-change years older than me, so either the Home Depot guy assumed that he had been a teen dad, or the Home Depot guy assumed that he was considerably older than he actually is. And I’m not sure which one is more insulting.
Looking back, I could’ve totally messed with the guy. I could’ve fluttered my big ol’ innocent eyes and said something akin to, “Yup! My husband! Although the state won’t be okay with that for another three years *wink wink*.”