Two guys in their early twenties are riding a standing-room-only northbound Howard train during rush hour.
“I got stuck talking to our teacher today,” says the first guy. “She was standing outside smoking before class, and I had to tell her why I didn’t have my homework. After I told her my computer was having problems–a lame excuse, but true–she kept talking to me. She was, like, trying to be my buddy or something. She’s got that whole 60s thing going–you know, with the bell-bottoms. She’s really out of it. I hate when teachers try to act young.”
“My mom teaches at the Art Institute too,” the second guy says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Fashion design.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah. She’s really cool, too. She went with us to Lollapalooza and stuff. She doesn’t really like the music geared to people in her age bracket.”
“Well, our teacher is 27.”
“Really? I thought she was older.”
“No, she’s 27. She’s just at that age where she’s, like, trying to hold on to her youth or something, so she’s trying to act young.”
“Well, my mom’s 45.”
“Oh yeah, that’s different. I mean, she’s not, like, trying to act young, right? She’s not trying.”
“No, no, she’s just like that.”
“Well, that’s cool.”