On Age

The whole last year I was in Austin, a recently graduated mess of a 22 year-old, I was positive I was in fact 23. Maybe this has to do with the fact that most people graduate at 23, or turn 23 shortly thereafter, but I graduated and then turned 22. But whenever anyone asked me my age, I had to hesitate: I felt 23.

Of course I came here, an older mess of a 22 year-old, and turned 23 a couple of weeks later. Only now I feel like I’m 22 all the time. To this I have only one word to say: TARNATION!

This conversion seems to have to do with the fact that I am once more the youngin at my place of work. Most teachers at the school fall in the range of 25 to 27. Which isn’t a huge difference. But it’s a difference. I was flirting with this British woman named Sara last week when it sort of came down to the fact that she was 27 and gorgeous and I was, after all, 23. Not in words so much, just in any potential seriousness in the situation.

It’s something I’ve been used to my whole life, as a younger brother: I was Luigi to my brother’s Mario, Tails to his Sonic, Earl to his Toe Jam. And every job I worked at shoe stores, bakeries, etc., I always found myself as the youngest, which I’ve found I play both in my advantage and hide in its comfort. The youngest is always the darling, always precious, give lots of leeway, but never taken seriously.

It’s a little bit frustrating here, since I sort of came to have this new, adult life (Or did I come to put off adulthood? Um, shit.) and I wish I wasn’t firmly entrenched on the young side of the line. But such is life. It’s not like they’re pinching my cheeks or anything. That’s the funny thing about experience—you don’t want to believe that you need it till you have it. Then you understand.