I might be getting old.

I had the beginnings of a sore throat at work today, so I slipped over to the convenience mart across the street to grab a highly carbonated soda, one of the only elixirs that can soothe my pain. Something like this exchange occurred between me and the guy at the counter:
"That all for you bebee?"
"Yup.'
"That'll be a dollar and some sort of change, bebee."
*struggles with crumpled bills then hands said bill awkwardly across the counter*
"Sorry."
"That's okay bebee. How old are you?"
"I'm twenty five"
"You look seventeen."
"Thanks?"
"This is very good for boyfriends, yeah? You have a boyfriend?"
"I'm married."
"This is very good for husbands and boyfriends."

After I had crossed back to the library, I realized that I might be old. That suddenly being seventeen is supposed to be some sort of compliment--that my face does not yet betray my haggard twenty-five years. Sure, sometimes I look a little young. Not in a hot barely legal way, more in a she can't put an outfit together to save her soul/her face still has the topography of a Campbell's soup kid sort of way; I don't tend even remember how old I am anymore (again, a sign of aging) until someone like Mr. Bebee brings it up. For youthfulness to be a compliment is still sort of jarring, since only a few years ago I wanted to fool bouncers into letting me into bars and managers into thinking I was mature enough to merit promotion. Weird.
The really disappointing thing is that all of this chatter meant I missed out on secretly observing the shirtless Doug from Ghost World wannabe. I'm not even sure if he was hungry enough to chew the crotch out of a rag doll. Sigh.