The Curse Of The Babyface, Part 3

I am someone who has the mixed blessing of being “babyfaced.” I say it’s a mixed blessing because this was seriously problematic for me in my teens and twenties. I had issues such as having the police called by a concerned citizen who thought a seventeen-year-old was passionately kissing a ten- or eleven-year-old, being kicked out of bars and nightclubs by rude bouncers accusing me of using a fake ID, and being carded at the theaters to see R-rated movies — despite the fact that I was thirty.

But this recent incident had me nearly in tears. It was after the health crisis lockdown, and right down the street from me was a massive playing field where I noticed people always running track or playing a sport. I decided I’d made enough excuses to keep sitting on my wobbly butt after noticing I could barely jog a block before running out of steam. I strolled into the office adjacent to the playing field to ask how to sign up for a membership.

The lady behind the counter gave me an odd look.

Lady: “I suppose you could, but I’m not sure you would fit well. The members here are pretty young, and you’re much older.”

Me: “That’s okay; I don’t mind young adults. I just would like to get back in shape and be active.”

Lady: “I understand that, but… are you sure you can keep up with them? Most of them are teenagers, and you are how old? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

Me: “Actually forty, but I don’t know whether to get offended or hug you!”

Related:
The Curse Of The Babyface, Part 2
The Curse Of The Babyface