Once, I was asked if I was an undercover cop.

Whoa. Let me back up a little.

Last week, I turned thirty-eight. Now, allow me a moment to toot my own horn:

When discovering my age, a man in his twenties recently asked me how I managed to look so young. “Is it Avon,” he queried “because I had no idea.”

A few months ago, I was carded when entering a twenty-one plus establishment. “Really,” I asked while he checked my DOB. “Man, I was like ten years off,” replied the young bouncer. I smiled and then tripped over my own feet.

When telling a new friend that I had been working at the same job for fifteen years, he said “You don’t look old enough to have worked at the same job that long.” “I’m thirty-seven,” I said. “Well, the years have been good to you,” he retorted with a smile.

Then, a few weeks ago, a young attendant at a gas station teasingly carded me for a pack of smokes. “Do I need to ask for your ID? And, where are you headed looking so cute?”

Stop. Just stop. Okay, no, go on.

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