I’m at the gym again, with my daughter. We’re in our (most likely) embarrassingly too similar haircuts, shorts, and cut t-shirts. If I had to admit it, I’d admit that we look cute.
I notice a woman on a machine near us. She looks confused and I look away. But then she looks directly at me.
“Excuse me,” she says. “You seem like you know what to do here. Do you know how to set this machine?”
Now, I don’t, because I rarely, if ever, use machines, but I decide to try and help her anyway. I figure I can figure it out.
I do. I move a few pegs and click a few things into place, and set her up. “Thanks,” she says.
“My pleasure,” I answer.
She looks over at my daughter and me. “You two look great,” she says. “Keep it up. You’ll age well.”
“Thanks,” I reply.
My daughter and I turn away, laughing. I think this woman is my age – maybe a few years younger, maybe a few years older, but definitely close.
I’ve always looked young. I used to hate it. My husband likes to tell the story of about ten to fifteen years ago when someone rang the doorbell at our house in Connecticut, selling something. I answered the door, probably in shorts and t-shirt, definitely with my hair in pigtails.
“Is your mom home?” the woman selling something asked.
“I am the mom,” I answered. And then I bought whatever she was selling.
Again, I’ve always looked young. My height – or lack thereof – compounds that. And when my daughter and I are together – looking similar, dressing similar – it gets even more confusing, I’m sure.
But it made me laugh. “I’ll age well.”
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