Getting older just doesn't seem to be working out for me. Like tonight, when my parents had these guests over. This was the first time we had guests over in like three years, even though my dad insists that we always keep our house in guest-ready mode — no soap scum in the bathrooms, the living room couch pillows must remain fluffed at all times — just in case the someone like the pope randomly decides to stop by.

We don't do much entertaining.

Tonight, our visitors were Barbara and Dick, the people who sold my parents our house. They hadn't seen me since I was nine months old, and I guess that no one can go a full twenty-two years without seeing me. So, I had to join their (really) little party and make inane small talk. What did you major in? What are you doing now? Like I don't have pre-packaged answers for those questions.

I even tried a question of my own: "So, you used to live here?" Not quite a question, but it did start a conversation. A long, tedious conversation that made me acutely aware of how much my butt was itching. That's the thing — most of my experience meeting my parents' dull-ass friends and relatives occurred when I was around five years old, and back then it was okay to look away, disinterested, like I'd rather be playing GameBoy. Can't do that anymore. Gotta pretend the real estate market is interesting.

Wasn't interesting back when I was five, still not interesting. Just shut up, parents' friends.