(Friday night class) “I did my second graduate degree while I was working full time,” I said with a yawn over my young instructor and the three teen boys who were arguing over who was the most tired by rattling off their AP classs and hours devoted to homework. They dropped that subject and then circled each other asking their ages.
“You can’t be more than twenty,” said J to me in his monotone, overly articulated voice. J is fifteen and a little special, as detailed in tomorrow’s post. While he’s starting to grow up sometimes he blurts out very childlike things. I grinned at him and sweetly told him “thank you” before I turned around and rolled my eyes at my giggling instructor. That’s not the first time I’ve been mistaken for a twenty-year-old. The first time was from T, a sixteen-year-old black belt. These boys have either never been around adults other than teachers and parents (who are always “old”) and therefore have no reference point for age or they are humoring me. I don’t care to be twenty again. The only thing I had going for me back then was clearer skin.
Today I was reminded of how much I am NOT twenty as I lay on a heating pad cursing the advanced wheel pose I did in yoga class Thursday night. Then again sitting in an office chair 40 hours a week can’t be any worse for my back. I’ll take the wheel poses and jump kicks any day.
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