My poor fourteen-year-old chest stuck on a thirty-something body

Four women come into the bar. They look like they’re in their forties. One of them looks at me and gasps. She nudges all the other women to look at me. Everyone is staring at me. Finally one of them speaks. She points at one of the other women and tells me,

“You look just like her daughter.”

“Oh.”

Normally when people tell me I look like some famous person or other I say thank you whether or not I have any idea who they’re talking about. I’m tempted to thank these women, but I’m not sure. No one is reassuring me about how cute this woman’s daughter is. Or saying the standard “that’s a compliment.”

These women look like they would have children who are twelve-years old.

I report all of this to my bar manager, and ask,

“Do they think I look like a twelve-year-old?”

My bar manager glances at my chest,

“They’re old enough to have a fourteen-year-old who is just starting to develop.”

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