The other day I answered the door and the young female salesperson said, “Is your mom or dad home?”
I gotta tell you, that made my day. Since I just turned 32.
She wasn’t trying to flatter me, either—she was embarrassed when I stepped outside and said, “Nope, I’m it.”
“Oh—well—you look young,” she said. (She was probably in her mid-twenties.)
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it, by George! My mom always said the day would come when I’d be thankful that I was petite and baby-faced. At the time all I cared about was that the Older Boys didn’t want to date me because I looked like I was twelve.
Apparently I still do. (Of course all the twelve-year-olds are trying to look twenty-three, but I’ll take that, too.) It must have been my ego that made me listen to her sales pitch without claiming a baby-related emergency, but when she came back the next day, my husband told her we weren’t interested.
He was probably just mad that she didn’t think he was a teenager.