The Age Old Question

Today I was confronted by a fact.
I was proverbially slapped in the face by it.
A giant big wallop that left me reeling for hours afterwards.
To be frank, I'm still in shock.

This brutal and unforgiving fact was...
I'm not getting any younger.

'Well, duh!' you say.
All I can do is look at you, my mouth opening and closing in disbelief like a giant carp out of water.

Let me put this all in context for you, dear reader.

I've been enjoying what I call age-bitchiness all week.
I have been foolishly teasing older people with my fewer collective years.
For the record I am 20.

These older folk have been reminiscing in front of me, saying things like 'In 1994, when I'd just finished high school...' they then temporarily pause and look over at me, furrowing their brow as a sign they are trying to calculate my age.
I am quite age deceptive, believe it or not.
Apparently I come across as a 'mature' individual and am often mistaken for someone who is somewhere in her mid to late twenties...*scoffs*.

I, the age-bitch, will innocently reply 'Oh, in 1994 I was four'. Teamed with a sickly sweet smile this line  can be the equivalent to a knock in the goolies.

Faces morph from perky and happy to aged and worn.
Stomachs do the Rubix Cube and twists around and in on themselves.
Rosy complexions swap their youthful vitality for a gray pallor not unlike death.

It's rather amusing to watch. That is until it happens to you.

I've been tied up in all the excitement of turning 21 and planning my grand party to welcome in my adulthood that I completely and utterly forgot that I actually was becoming an adult.

When do I officially stop being young?

Well this question was answered for me today. And the answer is NOW.

I was working at The Age Career Expo in Melbourne, helping to promote my old school as a preferred institute of learning for all those young, creative whipper snappers out there.
During my lunch break I went for a wander around the Expo and found The Age Newspaper's stall. Being a journalism graduate a certain level of opportunism resides deep within the core of my being and so I made a B-line straight to the exhibitors to chat about writing for the Age.
Apparently The Age has a special opportunity running at the moment for YOUNG writers to write for the paper.
Without hesitation I went and signed myself up for this. However, I was halted when I was asked for my age. As I read down the list of people who had previously signed up it dawned on me the median age was 17.
17.

My darling (yet occasionally non-functional) brain quickly reassured me that I was still able to apply for this.  I was only 18 after all.
...
HOLD THE PHONE!
Finally my brain caught up with itself and scowled at it's profound miscalculation.
I was 20.
20.
As in the 20 that is three years older than 17.
The 20 that is no longer considered a 'teenage' year.
THE 20.
The cusp of adulthood.

Well hello aged and worn expression, sick stomach and deathly pallor.

I looked up from the sign up sheet and came eye to eye with the exhibitors. My mouth pulled tight into a grimace I revealed to them what I then felt was my most guarded secret.

"Hi" I croaked, my voice breaking into a high pitched whine. 'At least I sound like a teenager' commented my sarcastic brain.
"Hello" said the male exhibitor.
I willed for myself to flash a toothy grin but only managed a very contrived closed mouth smile.
"Hi, how can we help you?" the female exhibitor said, gently trying to coax me into getting to the point.
"Ummm, well I've just graduated from a J-J-Journalism course and I was interested in doing some, uh, some, oh... uh, some... writing. For The Age. I saw this. Umm, erh it says you have to be young. And, well I also noticed uh, that everyone is 17. Thing is I'm not 17..."
At this point I caught myself wringing my hands and prematurely flinching just waiting for the punch in the guts I had queued up and waiting for myself.
My inner voice interrupted my observations, 'Say it like you're ripping a band-aid off, do it quickly.'
"... I am...uhh. I-I-I... I'm 20."

In the wonderland that is my warped perception of the world I saw these two older-than-me people visibly recoil at this last statement. It was as if I had just shown them a stool sample from some adventurer who was suffering dysentery.

I certainly didn't.
Not at all.
I just told them how OLD I was.
I didn't tell them my age.
I told them how old and not young I was.

I must have looked horrified as they both recomposed themselves enough to reassure me that 20 was still sort of young. The male exhibitor was the first to say something, "You might just want to send them an email when they contact you letting them know you are a graduate."
"Yeah" chimed in the female exhibitor.
"O-Ok" I whimpered. I grabbed the pen off the table and scribbled down my details. I snuck one last glance at the two exhibitors, thanked them for their time and ran away like a naughty child.

Only now has the irony hit me, I applied for The AGE newspaper.
*sigh*
It's all just a cosmic plot to screw with my elderly mind.
Well done, Cosmic Joker.

On a more meaningful and spiritual note, today has taught me we all get old and that Karma is a heavy-handed pimp that will happily smack you down with all the power of karmic accumulation.

Don't say I didn't warn you.