10 Years Younger

Once when I was in college, I went home for a weekend and ended up at my brother's track meet. It was one of those "field days" you have in junior high, where everyone shows up in tank tops, with a cooler full of gatorade, and interrupts their tanning and socializing for the required one or two events they have signed up for. You all know what I'm talking about, right?

Well, I showed up to watch my brother run (or jump or whatever he was doing), but felt quickly out of place amidst the 12-14 year old crowd and left as soon as he was finished. As I was walking out of the gate toward the parking lot, a teacher stopped me and asked if I was leaving with a parent. Embarrassed, I muttered that I wasn't a student at the school, but was actually in college. The teacher apologized and let me go, but I started to wonder whether or not I could really pass for a middle schooler. I consoled myself with reassurance that the teacher must not have really been looking at me very closely, because I still find it hard to believe that I could pass for someone 5+ years younger than myself.

~

The summer just before I got married, I had the best job in the world; I worked as a BYU Sports Camp Counselor. We had nothing to do with the actual athletic training, but instead spent the afternoons and evenings "chaperoning" the various activities going on. We went swimming, took weekly excursions to Seven Peaks Water Park, had watermelon spitting contests and talent shows, and attended weekly dances with our campers. Basically, I got paid for having fun. Everyone should be so lucky to have a job like that. Most of the time, we counselors wore one of three different counselor t-shirts that easily identified who we were. But the dances were a different story. We were dressed up in skirts or dresses, and boys would frequently ask us to dance, unaware that we weren't campers like they were.

My fellow counselor friends and I quickly found that the second we told the boys we were counselors, they would get embarrassed and not know how to act around us. And so, we decided the best thing to do would be to fib a little about our identities, merely to protect the boys feelings. My two friends and I became DJ, Stephanie and Michelle. We were always 17 and going to be a senior. Our hometown and the camp we were attending changed depending on what came to our minds in that instant. We were friendly, but never flirty (that would've been weird) and it worked like a charm; the boys were not embarrassed that they had asked a counselor to dance (gasp!), but (hopefully) went away having a good experience.

~
I think my days of "fitting in" with the younger crowd are over, thanks to my kids. Saturday night confirmed this for me, although I had suspected it for a while. One Sunday, I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the window as we came into the house after church. "We are a real family with three kids," I said to Jeff, somehow surprised. "I know," he said, "We're old."

Jeff's oldest brother, Brian, was visiting for a few days and we took advantage of him being here by treating ourself to one of our favorite restaurants, Koja Sushi. The restaurant is located at the Jacksonville Landing, right next to the river, and is a really fun place to eat. Usually there is some type of live entertainment in the courtyard downstairs and there are always people walking up and down the riverwalk taking in some awesome views. We didn't realize that Saturday night was anything special until we tried to find a place to park. That's when we found out that the Florida State/Alabama game was being played at the Jaguars stadium a few miles away. Thousands of college coeds had made the trip from Tallahassee and Tuscaloosa, and the ones who didn't have tickets to the game were gathered at the Landing for a party reminiscent of New Year's Eve in Las Vegas ("Happy @#($&# New Year Guys!" for Heather and Tara). We decided to go to Koja anyway--the sushi is that good.

Between the four Trapnell families (Brian, who had none of his kids with him; Russ, who had his three boys; Jeff, with his three; and Greg, with his son), we made quite the entrance into the tiny restaurant. Everywhere we looked (but mostly at the bar), there were college kids eating, drinking, laughing and watching the game. I took Allie into the bathroom, squeezing in between more tan girls in tank tops than I'd seen since my last field day in junior high. Allie used the toilet and as we were washing our hands, a coed was puking into the sink next to us. Good times.

Dinner was awesome (as it always is) and we got free soup, salad and some amazing fried ice cream balls because we had to wait a while for our food. Not a bad night, if you ask me. But as I sat there, looking around at the college kids, I realized that there was no way I was going to be mistaken for one of them that night. I didn't have on a necklace of flashing breasts (red lights flashed on a breast shaped piece of plastic) or a plastic cup of beer in my hand; instead, I had a leaky pair of breasts and a baby in my hand.

Truth be told, I never would've felt comfortable in an atmosphere like that, even before I had kids, but I would've been able to blend in more than I did Saturday night. We might have been able to sit there relatively unnoticed, as the drunken coeds partied all around us. But I don't think it's such a bad thing that we stood out this time. I hope all of those girls (even the one who was yakking in the bathroom) someday get to be as lucky as I am--staying home and raising my kids, knowing that a good man who loves us all is going to walk through the door at night. It kind of snuck up on me, but I guess I really am living my dream.