Guest post by Leslie Goldman, author of The Locker Room Diaries. Besides being a superstar author she also has a MUSTread blog called The Weighting Game. I HEART Leslie so much, that when I found out she read my blog, it was as if C.C. DeVille had given me THE “head nod” at a Poison concert back in the day! Um yeah, put it this way, had C.C. asked me to come back stage, I woulda dropped my pants! And yes, I told her so.
I’m not one to lie about my age – ever. I mean, I had a frigging Hello Kitty-themed 30th birthday party at an art gallery where my husband arranged for a signature pink drink – the Lollytini (Lolly is my nickname) – to be served. Turning 30 was a blast.
So last weekend, when I was called “over the hill” by some pissant college kid in a bar, I took it in total stride, right?
Um, can you imagine a life without peanut butter and chocolate combined?
No. Not at all.
I was visiting my alma mater, UW-Madison, with a group of friends and was having a fantastic time. We were at a bar and my friend Trish and I were orderin a round of drinky poos – beer for her, rum & diet for me. A preppy-looking guy, early-20s, half-sidles/half-stumbles up to me and, his eyes slightly glazed over, says to me, “You are fantastic!”
I smiled, mentally patted him on the head like a good little boy and turned around towards my friend.
He persisted and somehow roped me into a brief, indiotic conversation centered around why my friend was drinking beer when she could be having the house shot, an apple-flavored concoction. (Note: I did NOT instigate this convo and only complied because I was buzzed.) I made a comment refencing the fact that, quite proudly, I have not had a beer since 1995 (which is true – hate the stuff. It tastes like the smell of Band-aids and peanuts to me.) Immediately, a cartoon-like thought bubble appears over the guy’s head and I can tell the squirrel is racing furiously on the treadmill as he calculates my approximate age. Then, with a look on his face which I would imagine is not unlike when he takes a peek at a “gnarly” skateboarding bruise on his friend’s leg, looks me in the eyes and screams, “Dude! You’re 40!” As if that possibility were so disgusting, so foul, that he had to hold his breath.
I was a bit taken aback – more so by his being so appalled at the thought that he could be seen talking with a – gasp! – 40-yr-old than by my caring what he actually thought of my age.Then he looked at his wingman and announced, loudly, “Over the hill!” And they left.
And I, being the stubbord foolish, 40-year-old I apparently am, followed him.
Poke poke poke! (That’s me jamming my finger into his back, my nose scrunched up a pug.)
“For your information,” I snarled, “I am NOT 40!”
“Yes you are!” he laughed. “I dd the math. You graduated in 1993. I figured it out.”
(Note: The fact that he thinks this is correct math in any sense and is attending my university makes me cry a little.)
“Actually, you’re wrong,” I shot back. “I did not graduate in 19—”
He cut me off: “Yeah, it takes six years to graduate…”
Me: “I don’t know what bizarro world you’re living in, but it does not take most people six years to graduate school and besides…I’m 30!”
Did I mention, WG readers, that I actually am not 30? I’m currently 31. And a half.
Why did I feel the need (a) to prove anything to this kid and (b) to lie, for the first time ever, about my age? And not only that, but I only changed it by one year. If you’re gonna fib with a stranger in a bar, go big, no? Tell him you’re a lesbian astronaut who was on America’s Next Top Model, Cycle Five, or something. But for some reason I chose to simply shave off a year, to 30.
Well, there’s a very anticlimactic ending to this whole tale. Doughboy simply shrugged his sholders and turned around, and I was left stading there, my friend watching me like I had just attempted to wrestle a Tickle Me Elmo from a little girl’s teensy, fragile arms so my own child could have it. “Freak!” she was prolly thinking.
Then we ordered the most glorious food in the world – Pokey Sticks (cheesy, garlic breadsticks in the shape of a giant pizza, dipped in ranch) and an ooey-gooey late night snack so extraordinary it needs no other name besides “Pepperoni Rolls.”
My whole point – why do women often care so much about our age? Like I said, I’ve always been so proud of my 31-and-counting years on this earth (save for a few better-left-unmentioned moments in dark clubs and high school chemistry class.) But the moment I was challenged, I went into defense mode. I’m wondering, have you ever lied about your age? On a web site? To a potential date? At the doctor’s office? Tell me your stories so I don’t feel so silly
Love,
Leslie “Forever Young” Goldman
photo: weeta
