Forever Young

Recently I ventured out to the Beverly Center in West Hollywood to virtually punch my heart with some food court vittles and ran across a local sampling of America’s youth that were trying to figure out why there was a “XXI” on the sign in front of a store called Forever 21. Now admittedly I’m no rocket scientist, I probably couldn’t rise to the rank of bottle rocket scientist but I was pretty sure that I had a good idea what the “XXI” stood for. I ventured a guess and explained to them that I thought it was probably the Roman numerals for the number 21. To which one young man replied, “Like the country Rome?” I immediately acknowledged that he was one of the hold outs that still only recognized Rome as an empire, kudos good sir. As the escalator we were on reached the 3rd floor peak I saw the business in question. The lesson in numbers on the escalator coupled with site of a store full of older women clutching expensive hand-bags desperately trying to remain “Forever 21” brought me to a an all-together new revelation. Being 21 forever would suck. So where I was a little down about a birthday I recently had now it doesn’t seems so bad. Then of course I realized that I was the jerk that corrected some kids on an escalator and wrote about it later on, which is actually a rung or two below incessant honking in traffic on the self-centered idiot ladder.