I realized recently that I’m getting old, and I feel even older than I actually am, because I have an eleven year old. In case you’re unaware, when you have a child, you can just add their age to your own chronological age, because that’s how many years have been stolen from you. So, that makes me about thirty-four going on forty-five, and I’ve reached the awkward point in life where I can no longer tell how old anyone else is.
Case in point, I work in a specialty pharmacy … which is different from a marijuana dispensary, I’m sorry to say. And really, I feel sorry for myself. I don’t care so much how you feel about it. We dispense high end and experimental medications to patients with chronic conditions, such as multiple sclerosis, cancer, AIDS, and children. So, as medical professionals, I know all of my peers and colleagues are, at least, in their twenties, but they all appear, to me, to be (maybe) sixteen – tops. And it’s awkward, because I know I treat them like children.
For example, when we’re coming in, in the morning, I’ll catch myself patting them on the head, giving them noogies, and feeding them graham crackers.