I was just at the bank getting a cashier's check which, in and of itself, is a sign of obvious maturity. You really only need a cashier's check to pay off your bookie, buy a new-to-you Saab, launder some money for one mob family or another, or (in my case) pay the deposit on your new home. (The money laundering thing I took care of last week.)
At the bank the Russian teller was more than nice, more than accommodating, she was in fact the nicest person I've ever met. So nice that I didn't even notice it taking her 37 minutes to complete my transaction. I just stood there talking with her about my hoodie, then about Russia, then about how hoodies would be great for wearing in Russia. During a lull in the conversation after we agreed that hoodies would probably be bulky under all that fur, she asked, "So are you on a break from school?"
Perhaps this question was prompted by my elbows resting precariously on the counter in front of her, my legs dangling on tippy-toes as I stretched to seem taller than natural, or the hoodie we'd spent so much time discussing that is a child's size large and has giant birds and pink and purple hearts embroidered to it. Or the pigtails. Or the fact that my chin is broken out in a pubescent pre-menstrual constellation that if looked at properly under a telescope easily spells out the phrase, "ASK ME ABOUT HOW I AM 16 YEARS OLD."
I took a big sigh and responded to her, "No, I'm not in school. I am. Actually. Nearly 30."
With the sound of that little number breaking through the space-time continuum, she was shocked into staring at me in silence, a flag of incredulity waving behind her violently as the winds of my confession bowled her over. I just stared back while she stared at me, and all I could think to say was, "I know." She just stood there staring at me, that Russian gaze of disbelief piercing my soul.
After the storm died down and I explained to the Russian teller how I'm often mistaken for a 16 year old, she said casually, "Oh no, I would have said 19." Which of course gave me great relief because at least she didn't just start processing a cashier's check for thousands of dollars for someone who could barely drive. The idea of a 16 year old needing a cashier's check is scary to me, but a 19 year old, well that's more likely, isn't it? At least she has some professional standards. Then she told me about how when she turned 30 she already had two children and been married ten years, and then handed me the cashier's check she'd written out to Crappy Apartment Leasing Agency For Pathetic Single People Who Have Given Up On Love, LLC.
Finally, as situations like this always end, she had to ask the same questions I'm always asked when the subject of my age comes up, Do I like looking so young? Does it ever frustrate me? Has it ever hindered any choices I have made in life? I answered her questions as I aways do, by reciting her the essay I wrote to get into college ELEVEN YEARS AGO that revolved around my struggles as a 5-foot-even person with facial features that resemble a Disney-drawn chipmunk. I capped it off with, "In conclusion, I have learned a lot from looking like a child as a grown adult. Specifically, I have learned never to talk too long with men in bars, because if they're attracted to me, that means they're child molesters. (But always get them to pay my tab before I leave.)"
