Behind the Facade

When I recently discovered that the principal of my son’s elementary school and I are about the same age, it was traumatizing. The principal. Of the school. And I. Could have sat next to each other in remedial math in high school. Or been roommates in college. 

Aren’t principals supposed to be ornery old men with coffee breath and long nostril hair? 

I recall my dad telling me that he felt officially “old” when he went to a doctor’s appointment, and the doctor was younger than him. (“Wait ’til you’re older than the President,” he said. “That’s really something.”) 

Well, that doctor’s visit has happened to me. And it was troublesome. But I am still younger than the President; this one, anyhow. 

When a co-worker of mine once commented about a new hire, saying, “Samantha is, like, old, she’s like, 25 or something,” I realized that my perception of my youthfulness must be skewed. 

The word imposter seems to be an appropriate definition of how I feel: im·pos·ter, n: one who engages in deception under an assumed identity. A person who deceives others, esp. by pretending to be someone or something that he or she is not. 

…and that is what I am. My name is Midge, and I am an adult imposter. Don’t get me wrong: I am not hung up on age. I am just perplexed by the fact that my age doesn’t equate with my maturity level or mental state. Now excuse me while I trim my nostril hair and brew a fresh pot of Folgers.

Yours truly,

The Adult Imposter