So, we’re in Walmart or Lowe’s or some crap-hole country diner and the conversation inevitably goes like this:
“AWWWWW! Such a cute baby!”
“She’s a tiny thing! How old is she … four weeks?”
“Actually, she’s three months.”
“OH MAGOODNESS! How many weeks premature was she?”
And so already, it begins.
When I was, I don’t know, 2o, I used to have 13- and 14-year-old boys hit on me at work. I worked as a life guard at the city pool, and these boys were always honestly surprised to learn that I was almost old enough to buy booze for them. They thought I was THEIR AGE, i.e., barely past puberty.
Part of being a blip of a woman is that looking way younger than you are comes with the territory. So does getting waaaay less courtesy than you deserve as a person. These are just facts. The general public will say things like, “AWW … isn’t that cute? She is demanding respect!” or, if they are in a hurry, they will simply pick you up and move you out of their way despite your tiny protests.
Already, people are assuming Molly Mae is way younger than she actually is based on her peanut stature.
I wish I could tell her that this will stop or somehow even out, and that one day she’ll enjoy her youthful appearance.
I wish I could tell her that she won’t be completely horrified when she is the only one carded in a group of professional people, or that she won’t be kicked out of Easton for suspected curfew violation when she is 23, and that she’ll one day look old enough to sit in the massage chair at Brookstone without presenting a photo ID.
But nearly three decades into “petite,” I am still waiting on that day.
No related posts.