Next Time I’m Not Going to Comment

Admittedly, my 21st birthday feels a lifetime ago, and in a lot of ways – it was.  I was a full-time student, lived in a different state, filled my car’s tank with gas twice per week, had a cat, worked a casual job ten hours per week, planned to enter a field completely void of children, ate a full cooked breakfast at least six times per week, wore tapered jeans when the clean-clothes pickings were slim…Gosh are none of those things accurate these days.  (Especially false is the tapered jeans thing; they all went to charity by my 22nd birthday.)
I like to think I look young for my age, and feedback tends to reflect that this is not me being delusional.  (I do hold other delusions about my physical appearance.)  I don’t think I look under 21 though, and that would probably qualify as a delusion.  Anyway, I was buying wine for a dinner the other day and the cashier asked to see my id.  It was a day on which I felt particularly old and ornery.  This brightened my day, so I replied (as only old people such as myself do) “Thanks!”  He looked back at me and decided to clarify, “Oh, you totally look over 21, but I’m required to id anyone that looks under forty.  You look under forty.  Are you over forty?”
Next time I am just going to assume I am looking particularly young and vibrant and NOT make a comment.  I really had to put a spin on this in my mind and decided that he pegged me as over 21 due to the fact that I don’t dress like a hussy and wasn’t buying white zin.*
*I did not dress like a hussy or buy white zin when I was 21; I was raised better than that.

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