And compounding in on me were the countless reminders that I would never be good enough. Too talkative, too open, too bold.
“I’d like to point out that your age gap will be a disadvantage. It makes it difficult to relate.”
“She’s like you, but she doesn’t get overly excited about things.”
“What with the age gap and. . .”
“I know a heck of a lot more than you do. It’s no offense to you, but it’s just the way it is because I am older.”
“You need to realize he’s older than you and therefore his wisdom is much deeper than yours.”
“Ah yes, he knows that wisdom comes with age.”
“When you get older you’ll realize. . .”
“Have you ever considered someone your age?”
Too young.
As if my age kept me from seeing right through them.
Too young.
As if they really believed they were more mature.
Too young.
As if age were a garuntee of wisdom.
Too young.
Because youth is blindness. Because youth means naïveté.
Too young.
Because age is equal to worthiness.
Too young.
An insult you will never grow out of, because you will always be younger than its giver.
Bravery 