So it was Halloween the other day.
And my sister and I dressed as Paris and Nicole.
I dressed up more for the fun of it, not so much to go get the candy. (I am after all, 22)
However, when my siblings and cousins were walking out of the house on Wednesday night to do their trick-or-treating, a raucus was caused because I wan’t going to accompany them, but rather, stay behind to give candy to the kids.
“How can I be Nicole, if I don’t have a Paris?!” my sister wailed (which, as a side note, kind of makes you realize just how pathetic that whole situation is. Would there be a Nicole without Paris?)
“I just kind of assumed that you’d walk with them, the adult in the situation if you will.” said my aunt
So, out the door I went.
We were having a blast walking together (I may have gotten a piece of candy or three) when about a block later, we walked up to this woman’s house who took one look at me and said:
“I’m carding you.”
“huh?” I’m not sure if it came out of my mouth or I just thought it, but I had no idea what she was talking about.
“I’m carding you, you’re too old for this, you’re my age.”
You know in those movies, when someone says something that shocks one of the actors and you hear the sound of screeching brakes in the background?
Insert that noise here.
I’m going to be nice and say that this woman looked to be in the 35 range. I would also like to point out that this woman was black, and black people age much more gracefully than white people, so if she looked 35, than that means she is probably 45.
Devistation does not even begin to describe my feelings.
If I look 35, I’m doing something wrong. Not to say anything bad about how 35 year olds look, if you’re 35, you’re supposed to look 35. I’m 22, I’m supposed to still pass for a teen in some respects. I’ve never been one of those people who have looked their age. I’ve always looked older than I am, but I thought that was kind of supposed to reverse itself like it has for my mother, who not only doesn’t look her age (45) but since she lost a bunch of weight, could rival the stares that my sister and I (more her than me) often get.
My cousin Holly came to the rescue with a “Girl, she’s just jealous that she can’t work it like you can.”
Ah, approval from teenagers, just what I needed.
Don’t worry about me though, I’ll be fine. After I finish my brief stint in therapy, I’ll be as good as new.
And trying a new daily facial regiment.