22 going on…30 apparently

So it turns out that my Mother giving me anti-wrinkle cream for Christmas wasn’t a completely unfounded gift idea.

Last Thursday was my 23^rd birthday. I was once informed by some male colleagues that 22 is the last age a woman is considered young and sprightly. Harsh, I know. But there appears to be some merit in the assertion. Because judging by three fairly traumatising and quite frankly inescapable comments made to me recently, I appear to have aged 8 years in the past 365 days.

The first comment I could have quite easily passed off as childhood naivety. Brownies (children, not chocolate) are quite frequently supervised by parent volunteers - therefore, when I began helping out on Tuesdays it was only natural for them to enquire as to whose Mummy I was. However, after smiling pleasantly and informing the blonde, freckled darling that I wasn’t anybody’s Mummy, she pulled an expression of quite clear confusion then asked “Are you Alice’s Mummy?” Hmmm. Apparently not convinced.

Then, just three days after this first dent to my self-esteem, I was further beaten down when my colleague, astounded on discovering that I was 22, said she’d thought I was 28. Brilliant.

And the final blow came last week, during a seemingly-harmless discussion with the kids in my class about families. It went something like this:

“Miss Hamill, are you married?”

I smile. “No, I’m not married.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, I have a boyfriend.”

Mild confusion spreads across the faces of the group huddled at my feet. “So why aren’t you married?”

My smile falters. “Well.....”

“Mrs Oxford has a baby. Do you have any children?”

“No, I don’t have any children”. At this point the group are looking decidedly sceptical.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t, alright! Who are you, my Mother!?” I obviously did not say this but you get the idea.

In hindsight, what I really should have done in answer to these comments was invite the offenders round to my flat – a brief tour of which should demonstrate quite adequately that I really shouldn’t be allowed to fend for myself, let alone a husband or children. Highlights include my wardrobe, which still doesn’t have any doors; My kitchen cupboard, which currently consists of one clove of garlic, some easy-cook rice and a fairly-questionable tube of tomato puree; And, more poignantly, this...

This was a cactus. Enough said.

So to sum up, things are not looking good on the ageing front. And the only counter-argument I had left to cling to – that none of these people REALLY knew me - failed spectacularly on my birthday as I gazed over my lovely collection of presents which included a biscuit tin, five hardback classics and a knitting kit from my Mother, complete with needles, yarn and a sewing bag. The girls did buy me some sexy underwear but I think it was more of a hint than anything.