Baby Face

I’ve never really looked my age.

Part of it’s the whole four foot ten thing. I know I’m shorter than the average 7th grader, but I would like to think that I have a face old enough that people can tell that I’ve graduated middle school.

I’m 22 years old. Twenty-three in not much longer, and still unable to buy alcohol without getting a stink eye from a grocery store cashier.

I’ve heard the whole “You’ll appreciate this in 20 years” speech about a hundred times. I’m sure it’s true. But that doesn’t make it any more fun to be in your twenties and look in your teens.

It’s possible I’ve just had a few too many awkward “You know fake ID’s are illegal, right?” winking conversations.

There’s not really a way to solve it. One day I’ll get wrinkles I suppose. Have more mature clothes. An older hair cut. A job that people just assume couldn’t be held by someone who’s 17.

But for now, I’ll just glare, and hand over the ID. Wear lipstick that ages me a little, and try my hardest not to roll my eyes.

Even if I want to. And I really want to. 

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