Sometimes I hate my inner child

When I got to the elevators, there was a gaggle of teenage girls waiting. They were quite obviously The Cool Girls in the hierarchy of their little adolescent world.

I'm twice their age. I was on my way home to my very own apartment in a very nice building in a very nice neighbourhood. I had just spent my day doing difficult and fascinating work that would make you go "OMG that is SO COOL!" if I told you what it was. I am by objective standards hotter and better dressed than they are. The staff at that mall store that they're complaining watches them like they're going to steal something are actively polite to me, helping me find sizes and figure out which necklace works best, but also happily leaving me alone if I'm just browsing. And I could go into Holt Renfrew or a real estate agent or a car dealership and get treated with equal consideration, at least to my face.

But, because they're The Cool Girls and I've never been, some instinct from half a lifetime ago kicked in, and I lowered my eyes and tried to become invisible.

I hate it when that happens.