because i’m no longer 21

There’s a sacrifice to be made for the confidence and good sense that comes with age. My sister says it’s the stomach and points to her I’ve-gone-up-to-a-size-TWO gut. I say she’s insane (because anyone who knows her knows how fabulous that thrice laboured body looks). I say it’s the face.

My skin specialist has done her best to assuage my fear of fine lines and wrinkles by introducing me to Japanese skin care and saying things like: “Buffy you’re lucky you have such (SUCH) a chubby face. Thin faced girls are the first to age.” I don’t normally let skinny Swiss women talk about my fatness – face or no – but Heidi’s a friend and gives me discounts on photofacials and microderm. Bless. So I endure. I endure because I really couldn’t cope without her, and because I have my own tried and tested method of gaging the aging process. One that involves teenagers, alcohol and produce.

Every time I visit the States I make a point of buying a head of lettuce and a bottle of cheap red from a grocery store. (Because in Europe it doesn’t count. In Europe fourteen year olds regularly order rounds.) I do this to thrill in the delights of being carded by a college freshman. It’s my way of underhandedly begging for compliments. Of receiving without asking. At least, it use to be.

The day before The Big 3-0 the card came out for Chianti. A cashier fed my details into the register and I laughed ’til I snorted. Sure. I was practically thirty. But I was passing for twenty. (High Five. Borat Style.) Two days later I got cocky and ordered a glass of house. The waitress smiled and didn’t ask for I.D. I nearly cried. The next night I decided to make Beef Burgundy for the family and “that’s ok. I’ll get the wine myself, thanks.” I did cry that time.

I keep looking in the mirror wondering, how do they know? Is there some visible forehead line or age dent that signals to pimply faced youths that I’m no longer one of them?

He just laughs and says “Rejoice! You’ve managed to pull it off for nine years” and “Besides, do you really want to be mistaken for a twenty year old?” I say “No”. And know he’s right.

Still. I don’t like it. Not one bit.