At work I referred to myself as a “26-year-old man” and a guy on the other side of the bar reached across the space dividing us and pinched my cheek.
“Aw, that’s adorable. He called himself a ‘man’.”
To which I said, “Well, jesus, I didn’t know else to call myself.”
“You’re a boy,” he said.
Later I looked in the mirror and decided that maybe that jerk was right. I don’t look at all like an adult. I just look like a severely worn-down teenager who hasn’t slept or seen the sun in weeks.