How Ironic

" I feel so old!", she quipped. I did a double take, just to make sure she was talking to me. As she stood in front of the mirror reapplying her crimson gloss, I watched her reflection in the mirror. I noted that this child didn't look a day over 20, about 120 pounds and wearing the latest fashion trend. "Pardon me?", I stammered. This perky barely twenty something babbled on about the clothing choices of the younger women in the bar, she commented on how thin, young and risque the girls were. She confided that when she was their age she would have never worn what the "younger" girls were wearing now- and then she admitted that she felt too old to be in this particular bar. As she made some final alterations to her own attire and pouffed her hair, I watched her. You have no idea kiddo. No idea at all. I giggled, "Do you mind telling me how old you are?". She smucked her lips, ensuring the gloss was evenly distributed, and smiled. "22!" she exclaimed.

Instead of giving in to my desire to shake the twig and complain about how it feels for us older ladies, I opted instead to concede. "I know exactly how you feel", I said with a grin.

We stood alone in the washroom for another second, and with a flick of her hair she darted off. As I took a moment to stare at my own reflection in the mirror, I couldn't help but smile. It dawned on me that she must have thought I was give-er take the same age. If she only knew that 5 minutes before heading to the ladies room myself, my friends and I had just finished griping about all the college kids in the bar!