October 24 Editorial

Editorial
By: Kelly Woodard

There are moments in life that make you realize that not only are you old, but remind you of what an idiot you once were. I recently had one of those moments while shopping at one of Pensacola’s hottest boutiques, Indigeaux.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I had just taken care of some business downtown. I still had another 20 minutes on my parking meter, so I decided that I would take a leisurely stroll across the street to the cute little shop that I always stop and admire through the window while making my way from place to place on Friday nights.
I made my way through the doors and instantly knew that I was going to be grounded when my husband got our credit card bill. I browsed the racks of beautiful, trendy clothes, picking nearly one of everything to try on. On a side note, I realize the salesgirl probably hated me but I did end up buying about half of what I tried on.
I entered the dressing room/ curtain, and began my self-loathing fashion show. A couple of minutes in, I heard the front door to the shop open, and two seemingly hyperactive sorority girls from the valley blew in.
“OMG! I am totally, like, there! I’m so glad you called. I, like, can’t wait to see you,” said the first girl. “Like, who are you talking to,” said the second. I rolled my eyes and smiled as I struggled to get my large chest free from a dress that clearly wasn’t my size.
As the first girl hung up the phone, she answered her friend by saying, “That was Stacy. She wants me to go to some photo shoot with her later.” Apparently baffled by this new information, her friend snapped back, “So, like, are you going to go to dinner with us tonight or what?” Clearly having forgotten her previous plans, girl #1 replied with an answer that left my head reeling.
“Um, yeah. Like, this is supposed to be earlier or something. I mean, I probably won’t even go. I don’t even like her. I don’t know why she, like, always tries to talk to me and invite me places. Then I have to, like, be nice to her face and everything. Uhhh…I hate fake people.” I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t help but laugh after seeing the involuntary look of disgust on my face.
Soon the conversation between them shifted to girl #2’s ex-boyfriend. Having apparently done her wrong the first time around, she was considering giving him a second chance by letting him move into her apartment….rent free. “It’s just until he can find a job, and he says he’s really changed so I believe him.” Her friend responded in a way that any good friend would by saying, “Well he totally cheated on you, like, a hundred times last time, so maybe that isn’t the best idea.”
While in the dressing room, I had been envisioning what the girls might look like, and couldn’t wait to see if my instincts were dead on. In my head, they were very early 20’s, stick skinny, blonde, sporting perfectly tousled hair, and spoiled rotten with a hint of stuck up. I emerged from the dressing to find that my intuition had been nearly perfect, except one of the girls was a brunette.
I returned to a rack to find a shirt to match the tweed and sequin skirt that I loved only to see one of the girls pick up the same skirt and say to her friend, “Uh, the Golden Girls called. They want their skirt back.” Sick burn ladies. I promptly put the skirt back on the rack. The last thing I need to add to my Botox induced stare is a skirt that makes me earn the nickname, Sophia.
The final conversation that I couldn’t tune out even if I tried began with the two chatting about how immature college guys are and how stupid they find girls to be. “I mean seriously. Girls are just so two-faced. Maybe it gets better when you get old,” said girl #1. Girl #2 promptly answered, “Yeah, we should start hanging out with people in their 30’s.” I felt like a knife had just been jabbed into my pace maker.
Later that day, I sat there staring at my every tiny wrinkle and imperfection in the mirror while I thought about the two young girls. Had I been so shallow, ignorant, and annoying when I was their age? Are all 20 something’s so fond of the work “like”, and most importantly, is 30 really old?
There are days when I forget that I’m not 18 anymore, but I quickly remember when I attempt to relive my cheerleading days by doing a toe touch and pulling my groin. Then there are days when I feel so incredibly grateful that I no longer feel the need to dress skimpily and parade myself around every night of the week trying to attract the attention of a potential husband. Then there are others where I wish I could get angry without my face looking like a Shar Pei and someone telling me I’m acting like teenager.
In all actuality, I’m sure in my younger days that I complained about my bad boyfriends, said “like” too much, and thought I was grown and knew everything. Since then, I have learned that there are things in life that are worth worrying and complaining about, and trivial things don’t matter. What matters most is the health of family and friends, and living everyday to the fullest of your abilities.
If that is what makes your 30’s classify you as “old”, then call the nursing home. This Golden Girl is moving in.