andamu

I've always looked older than I am. I was tall for my age (though not the tallest in the class) and a bookworm, so I had random bits of knowledge and vocabulary beyond my years which contributed to the image.
My mother was what would be called an X-Ray technician in the States; on the nights and weekends that she was on stand-by after my father died she would take us along when the call came. I would do the admin. work (entering the patient's name in the record book, creating the envelope marked with details to hold the plates, making the entries in the patient folder) and then do the darkroom work (by then mostly automated) once she has taken the shots.
This usually didn't take too long, and I would be left twiddling my thumbs if there were a number of patients to be seen. I figured early on that for children especially this was a tough time: they are lying waiting in the hallway, it is often their first exposure to Emergency Rooms, never mind X-Rays, they have no idea what is going to happen, they are in pain and scared and bored. So I would go up and start talking - anything to keep their minds occupied: "What grade are you in now? What school do you go to? Who's your favorite teacher?" Innocuous stuff, but it made a big difference.
One day I was standing speaking to a twelve year-old boy, having just turned fifteen myself, when a man walking down the corridor wanted to know what had happened to "my son." He wouldn't believe me when I told him I was only three years older than the kid, and certainly not his mother.
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In seventh grade I once offered to watch a teacher's toddlers at a school function in return for a ride to and from said function, as he lived just at the end of our street. When I rang the doorbell, his wife (who had never met me before) came out and greeted me like an equal and started a conversation, before the teacher came out and dismissed me with "No, no, this is one of my students!"
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Once I reached University and the big city, I was still considered much older: instead of seventeen, most would likely have put my age just around thirty.
I was working as casual waitstaff for a catering company at a function set up in tents in a fancy country restaurant's grounds, where a household name in entertainment would be performing. I was the youngest of all the waitstaff, and the most inexperienced, this being only my second assignment.
Right in the middle of the celebrity's performance the power went off. She came storming back stage, looked around wildly and fixed her eyes on me, then proceeded to charge me with responsibility for the entire thing, as if I was the catering organizer. She did not want to know about the facts, wasn't interested that I was the junior with no control or even knowledge: she just kept on screaming at me, punching her hands in the air and stamping her feet.
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My age was also a real downer in company. If I were to meet any group of people socially, they would accept me as part of them and involve me in conversations and subsequent get-togethers. Then at some stage the topic of age would come up in a conversation, and when it became clear that I was just either side of twenty to their 30/35/40, everything would change. It was almost as if they were starting to dumb-down the conversation for my benefit, and suddenly I would no longer know about get-togethers even though they were still perfectly nice (if patronizing) at larger meetings.
Strange how one fact can change people's perception so radically, even when they've had plenty of opportunity to see the contrary.
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Makes me think of the story of the 90 year-old woman sitting in her rocker on the front porch with her two daughters, 65 and 68 respectively.
"It's so lonely out here," the woman sighed. "We haven't had company in a week. I wish I had someone to talk to."
"But Mother, we're right here," said her daughters.
"I'm talking real company," scorned the mother. "Who wants to sit around talking to children all day?"
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On the up side, my sister and my husband (both of whom are totally unbiased, of course) tell me that I now look younger than my age. Sort of got stuck looking around 30, and haven't changed much since that. It would be nice to believe them, but I'm the one who sees the increasing number of grey hairs in the mirror every day.
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A strange thing about growing up is how family relationships change - or doesn't change. Some of my aunts and uncles still treat me (when they see me) as a child, or if as an adult, definitely one much younger, on a different level. This seems somewhat artificial, and at times a little demeaning.
On the other hand, some of them started treating me as a full adult probably much too early, and would disclose private things that I would have much preferred not knowing.

(Yes, I know I am contradicting myself.)