Come back when you're not 17

I was driving home tonight in my friend Cindy's big, blue van. Cindy and my sister McKell were in tow. We were driving along 8th north in Orem when this jeep pulled along side us. Inside were two young men. Young men. Probably 17 or 18. They waved, I waved back and grimaced.

"We're going to Capella's," one remarked.

"That's great," I smiled, trying to contain my laughter. Dude, I'm like way too old for you. Come back when you're not 17.

I zoomed ahead, they drove on, I fell back, they seemed to slow down. And we were right next to them at every stop light. They were trying to get our attention, and the three of us were laughing our heads off. Imagine, 17 year old boys hitting on two 21-year-olds and one little sister.

"We're going to Capella's," they said at their next approach.

I nodded and slowed down for the light. As we got started back up again, I wanted to know how old they were. McKell was going to ask, but the light changed and so she didn't get the chance. But I did at the next light.

"Hey, guys, how old are you?" I tried to sound cool and hip, but it might not have worked.

They looked at each other, and then the little one said, "Twenty."

Thank goodness I didn't scoff right there in front of him. I smiled and laughed, "I am way too old for you."

"What . . . why . . . how old are you?" little guy stuttered, knowing he was caught.

"Twenty-one," I laughed as I pulled away and left the little jeep in the dust.

I would usually be ecstatic to be hit on, but why is it that when I get hit on, it is by little 17-year-olds?

Life sure is ironic sometimes.