Jen Juice

Sitting trying to act engaged and as if I’m listening. The buzz from the beer and the spinach and mushroom quesadilla is fading. All I can hear is a muffled sound that resembles my parents rehearsing adulthood by speaking in an overtone of “adult” speak.  I thought by having dinner and drinks with my colleagues would mean that instead of feeling like the kid at the kid’s table I would be involved in more peer sited topics, but not the case. I high-five the eight year old at the opposite side of the table as if the only connect is her. In-laws, children that speak a second language, and husbands that annoy are all brand topics at this four top table. I feel like if I don’t nod and smile appropriately I may give away the nail on the chalkboard boredom that has overcome my body. Officially, I have lost the feeling in my face and now cybering my way to bed. Another beautiful dinner with peers of no harm but seemingly not the shoes I want to inhabit.