Red Stripe

Kiddie Birthday parties. That wonderful phenomenon where everybody decides it would be a great idea to feed kids sugar and give them lots of presents and let them misbehave and run around in a sugar-crazed frenzy. I remember them fondly when I was a kid - jumping around in the bouncy-bounce things, eating cake and ice cream, running around and playing tag, getting gift-bags, playing stupid birthday party games like pop-the-balloon to get prizes, or just plain tag. 

They're fun when you're a kid, but I had never really been on the other side of the line until today. When you're an adult, your job is to shmooze and brag about your children and  act like you're really excited to see everyone. And I'm in that lovely in-between phase where you're still a kid but you're technically an adult - you're too old to jump around in the bouncy bounce (that's only acceptable if you have children and you're in there with them) and you're too young to talk about kids or jobs. So, unsure of what to do and feeling awkward and childless, I pulled a Red Stripe out of the little ice tub, cracked it open, and sat on the couch sipping my Jamaican beer slowly as different pseudo-relatives came and went from the places next to me on the couch. 

I thought, Me, an adult, what a funny joke. I sit here with my beer and talk about college and My Career Path and try to smile and join in as the real adults talk about babies, law firms, architecture, Danksos, more babies, and other such interesting things. On the inside, I am wondering what my girlfriend is doing or when is the acceptable time to text her or why my skirt is so damn tight or when I can get another beer. 

And While I'm technically in the realm of the adults, it's clear that I'm still my parents' Baby. They still brag about me to other people and tell them for me that I'm at Art School and I'm going to be an Illustrator and I work for Claire and isn't that all just great? While I stand there awkwardly blushing and looking at my feet. 

They start talking about shoes. 

"looks like you've got some battle wounds..." they say to me. They've noticed the bandages on my feet from getting warts removed. That's generally not information I throw out for public consumption so I'm about to make up a good reason for having bandages on my feet but my parents jump in -

"Oh, she inherited my propensity for getting warts... on her feet this time..." and they proceed to talk about how i've had warts on my hands since 7th grade, while I stand there and wait for the earth to swallow me up. 

"Hahaha... Yup. So much fun!" I say jokingly, smiling and trying to mask the horrifying fact that my parents just told a group of 10 other adults that I have warts. 

And that pretty much settles it - Silly me for ever thinking that I was straddling the line between adults and kids, or that I could ever be older than 5 in my relatives' eyes. I guess I really am still one of the children. I probably will be when I'm 40. When I think about it, all the older women probably feel similar when they're with their parents, I just don't notice because I'm too absorbed in my own teenage awkwardness.