I'm Old.

   Enamored as you all are of my riproaringly exciting,  non-stop Adventuress lifestyle, which has been previously described in free press online publications (i.e. other blog posts I've written about myself) as "something straight out of an urban-jungle-setting Lady Davey Crocket episode, meets Darkwing Duck's cool younger sister's secret tales of intrigue and self actualization," -- as completely infatuated as you all are with that shit, I gotta tell you something. This week, in broad daylight, behind a government building, I was in a gang fight. 

I know. What other crazy, poorly supervised hootenannies am I going to be photographed at next? Get this: I'm heading to the back lot of my friendly Niagara Falls library to make a timely return of some DVDs (which were viewed responsibly and cared for as though they were my own, as if they were disc-shaped infants). There was a light kerfuffle about; a red wagon full of dirty children, a security guard who was so old that if anybody tried anything unsavoury he'd likely pretend not to see it to avoid conflict or water-on-the-knee or whatever happens to people Mr. Dress-Up's (RIP) age, and another respectable woman in a mini-van, most likely patronizing municipal services in the same manner as I was. But then, as I pulled my 21-speed blue behemoth of a mountain bike up to the outdoor return slot, this wanton little shit of an eight-year-old came flying out undetected from behind a fence! Kind Mini-Van Lady laid on her horn, as though to say "mind yourself, short human, for I nearly killed you", but apparently the Fourth Grade Nothing was unfazed because then THIS happened:

 "Well fuuuuuuuuuuck you!" he said.

 The kid, who flew out into traffic, who I now know has probably been awful all of his life,  told somebody older than my mom "fuck you."

 I let the weird moment slide, because maybe his Teddy Grahams were stale that day, or maybe he doesn't even get delicious recess snacks or whatever. He sucks, but maybe being little is hard sometimes. But then. Then! A SPECK of a human, even tinier than Hungry At Recess rides up beside me by the book-drop and says:

"Gimme those books."

I, questioning the verity of this insane situation, say:

"What?!"

"give me...( he then paused because he's a sarcastic little a-hole) those books."

 Okay so first of all this little dude is stupid beyond measure. I'm carrying FLAT objects. In TRANSPARENT cases. They are clearly not pages bound by any sort of cover. Idiot. That part was my inner monologue because I feel better about myself when I'm quietly disparaging the youth of today, like so many other hard-working citizens. Second of all, what in sweet hell is his plan? If I just go "Oh, these flat, clear books? Give them to you? Sure!" How is he gonna navigate somewhere with mini-arms full of literature on a bicycle? Is he threatening to destroy my pristine reputation with Victoria Avenue library by racking up my late fees? Does he just really wanna be the one who gets to put them in the drop-off box? Have I finally met the other person on Earth who loves mailboxish drawer-type apparatuses as much as me? Whatever pipsqueak, I see through your poorly orchestrated plot. I am carefully crafting a response as I quickly but still just as enjoyably return my MOVIES to their home.

So I say:

"No! Get away from me, you little twerp!"

Because apparently I'm from the movie The Sandlot. I'm almost thirty and it's 2014. I called this kid a twerp. That was my best response. He then, and who can really blame him, laughs in my face and says "hey guys! She called us twerps!" which was followed by maniacal eight-year-old laughter and subsequently my interaction with the final member of the bike gang. Third Kid was bigger. I don't even mean bigger like it matters. None of them were even five feet tall and they were all standing UPRIGHT on their bicycles. Still, he was somewhat more threatening. So he starts mock-repeating what I said, y'know, that time two seconds ago when I called them twerps. It was at this juncture that I pulled out all the stops for a real verbal lashing. I says to 'em, I says:

 "what's WRONG with you? Where are your MOTHERS?"

 Applause, Chels. Bravo. Truly a game-changer. Go to the drug store, purchase your compression socks and Metamucil with rolled dimes from your glass peanut butter jar and call it a night.

I rode away so discombobulated, head shaking, wondering about the rotten youth of today. Mostly wondering why I lost in a confrontation with three people who aren't my own age even if you added all of their ages together. Why didn't I just start screaming obscenities back? Why didn't I set fire to their bicycles and twirl my fake mustache like an old timey villain?

Why didn't I go INTO the library to renew Saved by the Bell instead of giving up on fun and returning stuff at the back door? Sometimes you make choices, guys.

Sometimes those choices have consequences.