Anyhow, Hubby asked me to pick him up some beer when I went on my Nilla run. Now, I am not a regular purchaser or consumer of alcoholic beverages (neither is Hubby for that matter), but on those infrequent occasions when I do buy something alcoholic, I get depressed. You see, I'm now past the age where anyone but the youngest teen (who therefore can't judge age well) cashier will ask me for ID, and when that happens (even though they call me "ma'am") it doesn't count. I mean, we all know teenagers can't tell how old grown-ups are. My proof of this is that one summer back in college, Hubby's roommate cashiered at one of the local grocery stores. Every day, he'd come home from his shift and announce the age of the oldest person he'd carded because he honestly couldn't tell how old that customer was. (I believe his record was 54 - he said it was a woman wearing a lot of make-up and who dressed "young" so that was his defense.) I suppose I should face the fact that I don't look remotely close to 21, what with my minivan key fob and young child typically in tow, not to mention the Mom Haircut (which I am, of course, trying to grow out now). I'd like to think I don't look 36 (and a half, if I'm being honest), though the last time I recall being seriously proofed - by an adult who should be able to judge age somewhat accurately - for an alcoholic beverage purchase was when Hubby and I were on vacay in New Orleans, in January of 2000, when I was still in my twenties. Sigh.
I'm going to digress here for a moment now, if I may. You see, not only do I apparently clearly scream "Definitely at least mid-to-late-30s" with every fiber of my being from the top of my mom hair to the soles of my Birks, but Hubby is a regular Dorian Gray. He has that Michael J. Fox/Matthew Broderick/Ralph Macchio thing going on, where he looks eternally youthful despite being a mere 11 months younger than me. I'm sadly not exaggerating about this - once, when he was 25, he got proofed one afternoon when buying tickets for an R-rated movie that we were going to see later that evening. Then, to make matters worse, the ticket seller lady looked past him to where I was sitting in our car right out front (this was in a speck of a town in the wilds of New Hampshire) and said to him "You can run out and have your mom come in to get the tickets if you'd like" as Hubby furiously hunted around in his wallet for his license. His mom?!? Humph!!! Thank goodness Donnie Brasco was worth the angst. If that hadn't been the only movie theater within an hour's drive, I don't think we ever would've gone back there!
Anyhow, back to my original tale now. I pull into a lane with an older (as in mid-fifties, easily) cashier and unload the cart. (Oh, Nilla Wafers, I hear you calling to me.........) The cashier does the generic chit-chat with me as she starts ringing me up - has it stopped raining yet, etc. I'm looking through the gazillion keytags on my keychain for my shopper's club card when it happens.
She asks me for ID. Seriously. She wanted proof of my age before she'd sell me that six pack of Miller Chill. (Which, by the way, ew! Hubby says it is "refreshing" but just the concept makes me want to retch. Then again, I don't really like any beer, so maybe it's just my natural, beer-tastes-icky tendencies coloring my opinion.)
I could've kissed her! Instead, I settled for an "Oh my, you're so sweet!" as I happily dug out my license. It was made all the better by the fact that she looked old enough to be able to judge another adult's age.
Now, maybe you think it's a bit vain or silly of me to be so thrilled at getting carded. The thing is, our local grocery store's ID policy is "under 40" so it has kind of stung to never get carded over the past ten or so years. Especially when I'm married to Ferris Bueller... So, thank you, grocery store cashier lady. You made this heading-into-my-later-30s chick's day.
Now, off to make that pie!
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