It's Getting Old, and So Am I

I just returned from my dermatologist's office, a fancy-schmancy oasis on Wilshire Boulevard where they offer Botox and laser wrinkle removal. (Before you jump to conclusions, I was undergoing a most unglamorous procedure of getting my moles checked). Going to my doctor's office is almost a treat. Her staff are friendly and professional, and they are clearly trying to cultivate a spa atmosphere complete with glossy magazines and complimentary mineral water. So enjoyable is my time in the waiting room, they have to peel me from my chair. (It doesn't help that I'm usually having something icky done, like having a mole cut out or burned off my forehead.)

My gripe involves a trend that is growing more disturbing by the day. Each of her staff members, from the scheduler to the nurse, calls me "hon," "kiddo" or "sweetie". It's not done in a patronizing way, they are quite sincere. The thing is, I'm probably older than half of these well-intended, yet misguided women. Do they really think I'm in college? Don't they see my charts stating I was born in the early 70s? Unless they can't do the math, which clearly, albeit painfully states I'm 35. I want to say, "Look I'm paying with my own credit card. I'm using my own health insurance which is provided by my grown-up job."

I briefly attributed it to the way I dress, but in a town that so desperately covets youth, even the grannies shop at Forever 21. Compared to these exhibitionists, I might as well be a Victorian.

When I was 21 and looked 16 everyone told me I'd appreciate it when I got older. I know, I should be so lucky. To be terminally cute, ha ha. Well let me tell you something. Cute does not age well. Cute is cute at 21, less endearing at 35, and downright ridiculous at 40. Even if 40 is the new 30, it ain't the new 15. Not just yet anyway.