feminism?

Wait, how old do you think I am?

It finally happened.

The day I’ve been waiting for since before forever finally arrived! The day I’d been told would eventually get here, came and it was just as glorious as everyone said it would be! It finally fantastically happened!

Someone thought I was 10 years younger than I currently am, and it was finally a compliment!

HOLLA!

I am one of those people who’s been haunted by a baby face since way past my toddler years. I’ve been carded for every single lottery ticket, bottle of alcohol and R-rated movie that I have ever attempted to purchase or attend. And I’ve been repeatedly judged as inexperienced by people who assumed I was a decade younger than whatever age I currently was at any given time.

And it has always been inconvenient at best and humiliating at worst.

The most traumatic of such experiences happened the summer before my freshman year of college. With a smile full of braces, I admit I didn’t exactly look like an adult, but at 17, I figured I could at least pull off “teenager.”

Alas, someone genuinely asked me, and I quote, “So, what junior high are you going to be attending in the fall?”

I cried. For real. Tears. Everything. It was horrible.

At 17 years old, the very last thing you want in the world is to be mistaken for12. It’s right there on the list with “being told you have to be home by 10 p.m.” or “having to put gas in your dad’s car when you borrow it.” Gawd. Right?

Anyway, ya, it didn’t get better with age. Being mistaken for an intern while working full-time hurts your credibility, being hit on by 21 year old when you’re 27 is creepy, and having people ask you where the youth group leader is when you are the youth group leader is embarrassing.

Everyone always told me, though ,that one day, I would like being mistaken for younger than I really was. That I would get excited when they carded me to buy a glass of wine and that I would smile when someone asked to see my ID.

I honestly just figured that with my luck, by the time I got to that magical age, I would somehow actually look older than I really was and the whole vicious cycle would continue.

Thank. You. Lord. That didn’t happen!

There I was entering a random contest at this random booth at a random conference last week, and as I was filling out the entry form, the dude was all, “Wait. Are you 18? Because you have to be over 18 to enter.”

He was dead serious.

And then I was, “Huh? Shut. Up.” And then I flirting-ly punched his shoulder and giggled.

“You are too kind.”

And he was all, “Umm, oh. How old are you?”

And I was all, “28. he he. giggle giggle”

That’s when I realized the day I had been dreaming about since I was 17 years old had finally arrived.

And it really was fabulous as everyone said it would be.

Now excuse while I go back to the car to get my licence so I can watch Act of Valor.

 

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My friend Stephanie

I got to chat last night with my friend Stephanie for about 8 minutes and all at once I remembered how much I miss the heck out of her.

She’s in the far off land of Springfield, Ill. raising the cutest baby girl west of everywhere, and loving her husband and working and whatnot. And I’m here in Chicagoland balancing two jobs, and trying not to eat too many french fires.

And because of those things, we hardly ever get to talk anymore.

The two of met in grad school, and bonded over our mutual love of blonde highlights. We clicked incredibly well for two people trying to find friends in an insanely competitive group of journalists.

And that friendship was solidified like the marble steps in the capital building once we started our Wednesday night dinners. It was a tradition that began as a response to the depressing Illinois winter and the exhaustion we endured from chasing around Gov. Blagojevich. At the time, I was on a diet, so it was the only day of the week I let myself drink soda. (Sweet, sweet soda, how I love thee).

Anyway, I always (always) wanted to go to Olive Garden, but sometimes I’d let her choose the place. Wherever we ended up, the evening turned into a magical night of friendship.

I miss those Wednesday night dinners with all my blonde soul.

Lucky for me, we’ve been able to stay in pretty good touch over the years (wow, years. with an s. crazy).  And I could tell from our 8 minutes of amiga bliss last night that we’ll continue to be friends for a long time.

My favorite part was that after she said she still keeps up with me on Facebook and my blog, she asked what only true friends can — tell about all the stuff you don’t post on the Internet. And I spewed out as much as I could before we had to say good-bye.

And, I’m making a promise to myself now that I will see her and her beautiful daughter in person soon. Because good friends like Stephanie are hard too find, and when you meet one, you have to hang on for dear life.

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Win, lose, love.

So I’m seriously hoping that the Occupy Wall Street protesters will convince everyone to forgive student loan debt.

No. For real.

They seem like a bunch of people with student loan debt, and seeing as how it would stimulate the economy if me and everyone else didn’t have to shovel $310 to the federal government every month just to keep up with interest, I think the idea is totally winning.

And speaking of winning, I finally got some basic cable in my crib. (Crib is cool still, right?). I also got internet. Good news: Basic cable comes with free OnDemand! Holla! History Channel’s Ancient Alien, here I come. Bad news: The very most basic cable and internet package possible still is costing me $55 a month. Losing.

Speaking of losing, I got the flu shot this week at work, and then promptly got a (very) mild version of the flu.

I had never got the shot before, but I have to say — not sure it’s worth it. I got a slight fever, and the chills and that achy feeling where it hurts when air touches your skin. And I slept about 24 hours over a 36-hour period. True story.

Everyone tells me that it’s better than the real flu, which I believe. It’s just that I feel I like gambled with my body. I feel like getting the shot is only worth it if you know for 100 percent that you’re going to get the flu. Which I don’t.

I mean, ya, whatever, I was really excited when my company gave me the shot for free. I felt like it was a neat perk at my job and that the higher ups really do care about me. And my co-workers said that I needed it because I travel all the time to and from candy conferences and whatnot.

But I’m still undecided about getting it next year, seeing as how it kicked the crap out of me.

And speaking of undecided, I’m feeling really all right about being single these days.

I used to worry about my biological clock and whatever, but I have since come up with a back-up plan if I don’t get knocked up in time. Say it with me. A-dopt-ion.

Problem solved.

And, as my little sister said, it could be worse. I could be trying to find my second husband.

True that. Girl. True. That.

And speaking of my little sister, she sprained her ankle for, seriously, the fourth time since February.  I too am cursed with weak ankles (see: falling off a side walk, falling in a Target parking lot, falling in Jazzercise, etc.). It sucks.

I feel really bad for her. And I just wanted to take this chance to tell her: I’m praying for you. I hope you get better soon. And I love you so much I can’t even explain it.

And, well, speaking of love, umm, God.

I had a sort of epiphany recently about the big guy.

I used to think that if he didn’t answer my prayers exactly, and didn’t make everything better all the time, then He either didn’t exist or that He was a jerk or that I couldn’t count on Him.

It sounds so silly to take things into your own hands, but it often feels so much easier.

But the more I’ve gotten to know Him, the more I understand how to connect with Him. And I’ve learned to feel Him, and rely on Him. And well, if there’s just one thing I wish I could explain adequately to people it’s that just because He doesn’t respond to prayers like they’re a wishes and He’s a genie, doesn’t mean He doesn’t care or that’s He’s not there.

Also, that prayer works. It’s just almost never in the way you expect.

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