My very own Age of Love

Today I had an inexplicable craving for sour straws (well, not so inexplicable: I happened to noticed sour straws at a kiosk on Broadway and instantly I coveted them), so I stopped at the newsstand after my afternoon run to buy some. While I was waiting to pay, I was mesmerized by the woman in front of me, who was purchasing close to $40 worth of scratch-off lottery tickets. And because I am nothing if not easily susceptible, I decided to buy one too.

As I opened my mouth to request one, a nagging shadow of a doubt crossed my mind. He wouldn't! Would he?

"I'll take one," I said.

"How old are you?" he said.

OH NO HE DI'INT!

I drew myself up to my full, sweaty 5'1", mustered my haughty indignity and said: "24!"

"Seriously?" he squawked. "You look so young! You look like 16!" And thus, the unofficial disparity between how old I look and how old I actually am holds steady at an appalling eight years.