So again with the pathetic blogging. Work has been super busy and I’ve been kind of cranky and too impatient to bother with writing about things.
Anyway, I went to an Atmosphere show over the weekend. It reminded me of college – there were a lot of black Xs on a lot of hands and everyone was smoking ridiculous amounts of weed.
I felt old. This is sort of new for me. It was a sixteen and over show, so there were people in the crowd who were nearly a decade younger than me. A decade! And let me tell you, high schoolers seem even dumber in hindsight than they did when I was actually a high schooler. I have to say that I truly and deeply appreciate that all of my friends have grown out of the i-like-you-so-much-that-i-must-know-the-status-of-your-tonsils-now phase. Well, to be honest, not many of my friends actually went through that phase. But it’s alive and well in high schools all over Colorado.
It was especially funny in light of a conversation I had on the bus earlier that day. I was heading into the office and reading The Great Gatsby, and this guy near me asks “Hey is that a good book?”
I’m about 15 pages in, which I admit, explaining that I don’t know if the book is good yet. Then I go back to reading.
“Well, you’ll have to let me know how it is.”
Yes, of course, stranger. I will most definitely track you down someday to share my thoughts on The Great Gatsby. And I go back to reading.
“So what’s your name?”
This is when I start to get annoyed. First of all, I suspect this guy is fucking with me. Second, I am clearly trying to avoid this conversation by burying my face in F. Scott Fitzgerald and it isn’t working. So I introduce myself, find out his name is Preach, and go back to reading.
“So how old are you, Mari?”
Seriously? Seriously? I’m 25, okay? And I’m trying to read this book so that I don’t have to talk to people like you on this bus.
Preach is shocked. Blown away that I am actually 25 because I don’t look older than 19. One thing about being 25 is that I am not yet old enough to be flattered when people think I am younger than I am. I know that’s the stereotype of women in America – we always want to be told we don’t look a day older than 10 years younger than we actually are. I have no desire to be 19 or to pass for 19. I like being 25. Which is fortunate, because Preach is 22 – but will be 23 in like a month. I think this is meant to reassure me in case I am feeling guilty for passing for 19.
It is at this point in the conversation that Preach’s companion, a woman he referred to only as Sister and who did not seem particularly pleased at our conversation, hops off the bus. Not a word of explanation, just peaces out. And Preach follows.
And I go back to reading.
Despite the fact that I look nineteen, I have a lot less patience than I did then.