barbie nudists @ the flea market
I'm pretty sure I'm not a grown up. The grown ups seem very serious. They don't make jokes about lactose intolerance followed by a loud mouth noise that mimics a horrendous fart.
They probably don't cruise the office in the late afternoon looking to nick furniture from other departments. They probably call facilities.
It's not that I feel immature, though I do love classic 7th grade humor now and then. It just seems like I don't fit in with my age group. Most days I still feel about 15 years old, but without the painful insecurity of adolescence. I don't wear (or own) a pair of sling back heels. I don't wear "slacks." My clothes are not coordinated into "outfits."
It's like I'm going in reverse. I used to dress up like a big girl and go to work in my suits and heels with professional hairdos and coordinated accessories. But now - now if I wear stuff like that, it's like I'm in costume. It doesn't feel like me.
I guess it's part of getting older - realizing that chronological age is meaningless. Except after a night of drinking, and then you're mercilessly reminded that the resilience of youth is long gone.
Before I go I must say, Letterman in hi-def is amazing. I'm smitten all over again.