Two disconcerting conversations.

Let me set this first one up: Last week, Kelly and I had a freak-out conversation about how we are going to be 27 this summer. Actually, I am the one who was freaking out. She was relatively calm. In fact, she was the one who kept saying, “27,” while I kept screeching, “Stop saying that! Stop saying that!”

Of course I know that 27 is not old, but it does sound really grownup. I do not feel grownup. Also, back in the day, I had kind of thought we’d start having kids when I was 27, but that looks very unlikely at this point. So, 27 has a lot of baggage. I am not yet ready to be 27. In preparation, though, I’ve started declaring my age to be “almost 27.” Surely I can get used to 27 before my birthday if I keep saying that. I hope.

On Saturday, I went to Wal-Mart to do our grocery shopping. I decided I would like to have some Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, Mike’s Diet Coke hat, and I had my hair in two braids. It was not my most mature looking outfit. Here is the conversation I had with the (very very young) cashier:

GIRL: I’ll need to see your ID.

KARI: *gets out ID*

GIRL: *tries to read age, has difficulty because of the little plastic thing it’s in* How about you just tell me your birthday?

KARI: 7/5/79

GIRL: *types that in, looks confused*

KARI: I’m almost 27.

GIRL: *in a voice of disbelief, indicating that I am lucky to be alive at such an advanced age* Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaw. You don’t look it.

KARI: *smiles*

As soon as I left the store, I called Kelly and left her a ranting message about how even my Wal-Mart cashier thinks that 27 is old, and I tried to accept the 27 but I just don’t think I can. I don’t want to be 27 yet! Someone make it stop!

At least I can take solace in the fact that Mike is almost 31. mwuhahahahahaha!


On Sunday at church, I was passing an older member in the hall after the service, and she stopped me and said, “What do you do?” However, that is not what I heard. Let me back up for a second. On Sunday I wore a shirt I don’t often wear, because I just can’t decide if the bottom hem makes it unflattering. I had ironed it in a different way, though, and i was pleased with it. I felt cute and springy. But when the lady asked me, “What do you do?” what I actually heard was, “WHEN are you DUE?”

Two things went through my head at that point:

1. How embarassing is it going to be for me to have to say, “Oh, I’m not pregnant?”

2. I’m never wearing this shirt ever ever again.

Luckily, I said neither of those things, and I just said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” And when she repeated the question, it turned out to be much less offensive than what I had originally heard. But for about two seconds, I thought I was having one of the most awkward conversations of all time: the one where you think a woman is pregnant . . . and she’s not.

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