Open discussions and the great age misnomer

One of the downsides of returning to school is the forced socialization amongst classmates. Not that I hate my classmates–it’s the group work that drives me nuts. Getting three or four driven college students to agree on something when a grade is at stake takes the negotiation skills of Jessie Jackson, Jimmy Carter, and John McEnroe all rolled up into one.

Group work brings strange people together. There’s a gal I have in two of my classes–we’ll call her Nestle (’cause her real name reminds me of a Crunchbar). Even though we didn’t sit next to each other, Nestle and I have been randomly assigned to work together in groups for each class. The odds of that happening are probably as slim as finding non-Octomom coverage on television–but that’s not the point of this tale. Because we’re working on two separate projects together for two separate classes, I’ve gotten kinda friendly with Nestle over the past couple weeks. Nothing personal–just course work-friendly. I know nothing about Nestle the person. She could be a communistic, polka-listening, clown-fearing, cat-juggling member of the Nazi party for all I know…and it wouldn’t concern me the slightest. The only thing I need to know about Nestle is if she’ll live up to her end of our group assignments.

“Are you married,” she asked me Tuesday.

“Yes I am,” I said without hesitation.

“I noticed the wedding ring. How come you never mentioned it before?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“How can you think that’s ‘not important?'”

I’m not one to talk about myself. I don’t bring up things that are irrelevant or go on with pointless stories (I might write pointless stories–but I certainly don’t vocalize them). Nestle and I have discussed schoolwork and boring teachers: the subject of true love never came up. I don’t announce my upcoming birthday when my birthday is upcoming; I’m not going to force an “I’m married” into a conversation with every person I meet. I don’t know if Nestle is married, nor do I care–it doesn’t affect my relationship with her.

Unfortunately for me, opening up, well, it just made things…more open. The subject of marriage excited Nestle and another girl. They both bombarded me with questions about The Wife, our wedding, and the honeymoon. With all the personal question being asked, I felt like the guest on a “Tonight Show.” It started with my marriage and quickly bounced from my career to childhood. Eventually the question came up that everyone always asks: “How old are you?”

“Thirty,” I lied. I didn’t mean to lie. I said meant to say “31” but before I could, my lips sorta stopped at 30. I’ve reached the point in my life where I’m semi-comfortable with my age. I’m happily married. I no longer live with my parents–there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Yet somehow “30” came out; the “one” did not.

“Wow,” Nestle said, processing what I shared. “You don’t look 30–you look very young for your age.”

In my mind, my chest puffed up and I beamed with pride. It’s nice to know I can’t pass for 30 even though I passed 30 a while back. Maybe I should go back to selling myself as a 25-year old–I still look the part.

I wonder why I have such a youthful appearance–it’s not like I eat right or take vitamins. Maybe it’s because I don’t smoke, I rarely drink, and I never really spent much time at smoky bars (one of the perks of being a total square, perhaps?).

Who knows?