Reality check: Meeting my age head-on

It's a good thing I don't mind dining alone, since I do quite a bit of it. I was in the mood for something different Tuesday, so I took myself to a Salvadorean restaurant I'd visited before. I stood at the "Hostess will seat you" and "We seat only complete parties" signs for a while as the waitstaff eyed me to make sure I wouldn't be joined. You could almost hear them sigh: "Oh, no. A one-top. Lousy tipper." before coming to seat me.

In the meantime, I had noticed a table of 5 women, having a happy, semi-loud lunch. That's all that occurred to me. Really. Five women, talking animatedly, obviously good friends, out for a luncheon lark and to see if the margaritas were as good as advertised. I was seated beside them and--ahem--we all know how guilty writers are of eavesdropping.

Well, really, what else was I to do between ordering and eating tostados, trying to decide whether I liked the black bean or tomato salsa best. (Black bean, but I paid for it, if you know what I mean.) So ear attuned next door, I was in a happy haze of their wedding discussion when one exclaimed: "Oh, you'll be a matron!" Must have been a surprise announcement. "A 36-year-old matron!"

Hel-lo? Thirty-six? These women were 36-ish? I was old enough to have given birth to them?

Slyly, I cocked my head to bring the evidence to bear. Young(er) skin. Hair naturally varying shades of brown or blonde, which if dyed or bleached, still managed to suit their skin tones. No wrinkles or bifocals. Their clothes didn't scream a generational difference, but...

Reality check. They were indeed young enough to belong to me. Egad. I had noticed but not noted. Would I had they been a table of women old enough to be my mother?