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September 16, 2013 / Andee Frizzell

Reality Bites

bikeThe other day I decided to rent one of those beach cruiser bikes, like the one Cameron Diaz rides around South Beach on, and go for a little ride down the boardwalk. I walked down the street from my place to the bike rental shop and stood in line with about thirty foreign exchange students, a couple on a date and about six sets of parents with spawn in tow.

Yes. I call children spawn. They are. Without judgement, or disdain, I simply refer to them as spawn. Well…not all children. The ones that are screaming, crying, or just plainly being assholes, I call them “birth control.” And I have never; almost never intend to say it directly in front of the child or their parents. I’m polite like that.

Before there is a collective vote to lynch me, by the “breeding community” for my bias towards children, I’d like to add here, I LOVE children. I love to spoil them, play tons of games with them which keep them up past bedtime, feed them foods that turn them into psycho’s and then I love to return them back to their doting, proud parents who are practised in demon possession and know how to handle the like.

Now that that’s said, I’ll get back to the story.

I gave the lady behind the counter my visa and my license. She handed me a plastic brain bucket and a ticket I was supposed to hand the guy outside, whom in return would fetch me my wheels.

I was standing on the street, looking over my choices of sweet rides when the bike fetching attendant headed in my direction, and said to the pimple faced teenager to my right, “I’ll get your mom’s bike first.” He then extended his hand out to ME assuming I was Mom.

I must have given him the big-time stink eye because he retracted his hand at a speed reserved for a bank robbery get away. “I’m not this kid’s mum!” I said, unbelievingly. “I don’t have a kid.”

How the hell could this guy think I could have a kid, let alone a kid that age? I was thinking he must be blind or a simpleton or a sever combination of both.

And that’s when it hit me. I actually could have a child that age. It was not totally mathematically impossible for me to have a teenage child. Even if I bred in my twenties I could have a teenager tag-a-long. I felt sick to my stomach. My delusional world was collapsing and reality was rushing in.

If someone asked me,” How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” My answer would honestly be… nineteen. ( I heard you all groan and laugh under your breath) I know the face looking back at me from the mirror is NOT visually nineteen, more like nineteen suffering from the Benjamin Button disease, but inside I feel like I’m nineteen.

So, a moment like this can BE very sobering….luckily after a pint or two, which I can legally drink and afford, cause I don’t have kids, I was no longer sober to the fact.


One Comment

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  1. Slam / Sep 16 2013 7:35 pm

    I had my 21 year old daughter when I was 25. My brain still thinks I am 20 (the mirror lies to me). When I go out for a beer with my friends and the bartender or barflies are my daughter’s friends, it feels creepy.

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