Death's door is large, brown and covered with medeaval spikes.
I know because I am, apparently, standing right in front of it.
Today I had an interview for an overseas internship, and I was STOKED.
Having spent the better part of a week setting up this interview, I'd foregone my copious hours of playing Bejeweled to fantasize about where I'll go and what I'll do and how awesome it will be. As my Master's thesis focus is on Egypt, I decided on Egypt or Istanbul, Turkey. My bags are fuckin' packed, dude. I can TASTE the sand.
Or I could, if I were only one year younger.
I rocked the interview.
One of the interviewers even gave me his personal laptop to fill out the necessary paperwork.
Which is where my turban hit a snag...
Name? Erin Greer
Address? 1600 Pennsylvania Ave
Telephone? Yes I have one
Birthday? March 16, 198...
"There's no option here for my birth year."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the options only go to 1982. I was born in 1981."
Concerned looks all around the table.
"Give me just one second. I will be right back."
Two tense minutes later and Juan reentered the interview room. His slumped shoulders and slack expression told me all I needed to know, but he apologized anyway. "I'm sorry, but we can only accept applicants up to the age of 30."
For those of you who don't know, I turned 31 two weeks ago.
Several apologies and much uncomfortable foot shuffling later, I am presented with the following, which stuck in my craw where the Egyptian sand used to be: "I'm sorry. This is just a youth leadership program so..."
Apparently, and somehow overnight, I seem to have lost it.
Misplaced it with too much experience I suppose.
Shoved it under the rug of "I can actually do this and make the most of it" and forgotten where I put it.
Still dreaming? No need. It's wasted on you. But don't worry, you'll soon forget this disappointment as the dementia sets in...
Much like the sites in Egypt.
Which I WILL still see.
If only in the hallucinations induced by mixing up my blood pressure medications.