nail number 2 or 3 in my coffin. i am losing count.

so in their infinite wisdom, the powers that be asked me to participate in a panel discussion at work for the benefit of the interns. only mildly terrified of large herds of over-eager earnest 20 year-olds, i agreed to share what little wisdom i have acquired in my brief and painful professional journey to mediocrity. i gave a mortifying little account of my career to date--as did, much more charmingly, my four colleagues also on the panel--and then i awkwardly fielded a couple questions. mostly painless. until.

until after the little panel discussion, that is. i was back in my office, packing up my things for the day (you know, tools of the trade: hacksaw, nail polish remover, baked beans) when one of the interns walked into my office, shocked.

intern: wait. are you OLD?
mr nice guy: wha?
intern: me and rebecca were listening to you talk about your experience--you know, grad school, internships, jobs other places--and we were adding it all up only it didn't add up. you must be old.
mr nice guy: how old did you think i was?
intern: 26? 27?
mr nice guy: and how old do you think i am now?
intern (thoroughly disgusted): like, 31?
mr nice guy: exactly ... so am i old?
intern: you look young. that'll be good when you're really old. like 40.