Inner-Child on the Outside

I may be 21 but I am definitely still a child. The littlest, silliest things make me happy. That isn’t why I believe I’m the living female version of Peter Pan. I think I’m Miss Pan because of how I react to the little things that make me so happy. I clap my hands like a 5-year-old who just destroyed his Lego fort. I giggle hysterically like a toddler laughing at the person who just banged their head on the kitchen table. I wag my proverbial tail like a puppy on a sugar rush. I grin like I’m about to barf rainbows and leprechauns and my eyes crinkle and shine with laser powered sun beams shooting out from every direction.

I’m a little kid. I even have the face of a kid. I don’t look anywhere near 21. I have big wide mahogany alien eyes that could only be feasibly acceptable on a Care Bear or Snow White. I have round rosy cheeks from Toyland or Santa Claus’s niece or something. According to Duckie, who has adopted me as her kid sister, mischief just jumps out of my eyes. That I understand because I always go push her swivel chair around and generally annoy the hell out of her when I’m bored. Then she throws me a lollipop or a little ball or something which I duly bound after and retrieve in my petite pink mouth.

This is why I’m amazed at how in the 6 years I’ve been hitting Cairo’s tiny (albeit improving) club scene, I’d never been I.D.ed. Not once. But now, having finally achieved the comfortable status of 21 and a half, I’ve been I.D.ed. Not once, but TWICE. Twice in as many weeks. Am I physically growing younger as I age? Do I really not look like an adult? I know it isn’t tighter security or anything because the clubs are still packed with my 16-year-old sister’s friends. Who, by the way, have yet to be I.D.ed. When I walk in with Bloft, she isn’t I.D.ed. I am. Resulting in even more ammunition in her already overflowing artillery of things to make fun of Eureka about.

Don’t these boobs prove I’m an adult? I mean look at them, they’re the perfect specimen of what God said an adult woman should possess. Glorious boobs. Divinely blessed boobs. Boobs that should not be I.D.ed. It is a crime against God and humanity to I.D. these boobs. And it isn’t like I hide them or anything. They get a pretty decent airing when I’m out. So seriously, bouncers, you have no reason to I.D. me.

I.D. me indeed. Think I can sue?