Would it KILL you to card me?
It started back in high school. Underage kids (not me of course) would casually saunter into 7-11 and attempt to procure their wine coolers and tall boys, all the while praying to a God they didn’t otherwise acknowledge that they wouldn’t get carded. These kids (not me!) then went on to college, where they were fortuitously paired with a new roommate from
Eventually these kids hit the miraculous milestone—twenty-one!—and getting carded was a joy, a thrill, albeit one usually met with a defiant, exasperated sigh—as if to say, “You’re carding me? I’m twenty-one and six days, asshole.”
Fast-forward a coupla decades, and the whole ID thing is just downright depressing. Here’s what it looks like: The wine and tequila bottles jiggle down the little supermarket conveyor belt, the guy slides them over the scanner and bags the whole lot right up. Does he even glance up to make sure I’m old enough? Never. Even if I am wearing lipgloss and a cute little dress, and I don’t even have my kids with me! Look, I’m not delusional. I realized I do not look half my age. But I’m pretty sure the rule is they’re supposed to card anyone who looks under thirty, and… okay, fine. I don’t fit that description, either. The thing is, I have no problem getting older. In fact, I quite enjoy having all this confidence and wisdom and perspective that I didn’t used to. It’s looking older that sucks.
This whole crappy situation has given rise to my latest, possibly greatest, idea ever: Put tip jars at supermarket checkout stands. They’re everywhere else, so why not? This might just incentivize those little button-pushing brats to card me. I don’t know about you, but I’d throw down a buck for that sort of compliment most any day. P.S. And to my newly thirty-something friend Dana who recently lamented (lamented!) the fact that she gets carded buying lotto tickets and canned air—a purchase for which, one wonders, you ought to be exactly how old?—I have two words: Bite me.
If it makes you feel better, i cannot remember the last time I was carded.
As a matter of fact a casino employee carded my hubby, who is seven years older than me, and didn’t card me. Nothing says “you look like a hag” like lets card the older guy with you. If he had a tip jar I would have spit in it. Ok not really but it was a downer.
Comment by Kandis — May 13, 2009 @ 12:04 pm
HA! People are staring right now…LOL and I think I peed my pants a little! Girl, I think you would rather NOT get carded vs. looking like your are 12 but are really 30, 9 months, 1 day. New one for ya…got carded for NyQuil {kids in tow} at Target a few weeks ago…
LOVE YA!
Comment by Dana — May 13, 2009 @ 12:47 pm
SEE WHY I HATE DANA???
Comment by Jenna — May 13, 2009 @ 12:59 pm
Don’t hate me, but I was carded last month while ordering a mimosa during brunch with a friend in Washington DC. I pulled out my license and the waiter told me it was expired (!!!! – I had no idea!!!) and he couldn’t serve me!!!! Can you believe that Sh!t?
Comment by Ann — May 13, 2009 @ 1:45 pm
Here is my theory- It doesn’t matter how old you look, you get carded if you look like you’re up to something. I am exactly 1 month older than you & I probably look at least 5 years older… last year I got carded buying clove ciggaretts! I knew it was bad for me, so I probably had that guilty look on my face. See, you should be happy that the checkout chicks think you are too put together to try and pull something off like illegally buying wine. Besides, since you don’t remember your high school years that well, let me remind you that we always sent YOU into the Jiffy Mart to buy wine coolers and Mad Dog! You NEVER got carded!
Comment by Kristin — May 13, 2009 @ 3:47 pm
Ah, hell. Kristin, I guess if I looked 40 when I was 16 I should be used to it by now… Sigh.
Comment by Jenna — May 13, 2009 @ 10:48 pm
You, girl, are a comedic genius! That was freakin hilarious! I love it and feel the exact same way. I am so glad that my niece/BFF Kandis started stalking you. Now I can stalk you too!
Comment by Gina — May 21, 2009 @ 7:03 pm