I used to look kind of young for my age. When I was 33 and humongously pregnant with little one, J and I were at the store buying $200 worth of food, including 4,000 bags of Raspberry Leaf Tea – to which I (rightly or wrongly) credit a very fast labor - and a dozen pints of Haagen Dazs ice cream, and the cashier carded me for the Big Foot Ale I was buying for my husband. But something happened after little one was born – it’s as if just pushing him through the birth canal aged me a hundred years or something. I really never got carded again after he was born, excepting that nice lady in Eugene, who carded me ON my 35th birthday, and I love her forever.
Seriously, I think that was the last time I was carded. Then recently, on an early Saturday evening I was grocery shopping. It was dark, it was raining, my husband had been late in getting home so I could shop by myself instead of lugging the kids with me, I looked like hell – no lipstick, no hair done, nada. So the lady rings up my $200 worth of food and cards me for the beer. At first, I was like, “oh aren’t you sweet…” But then I realized that my ID was at home in my gym bag, not in my handbag. (Adding yet one more item to the list of why my husband was right and wasting money on a gym membership has been more trouble than it’s been worth.)
“Oh,” I stammered, “I don’t have it with me!”
“Well I can’t sell it to you without ID if you look under thirty,” she said.
“I couldn’t possibly look like I’m not old enough to drink,” I argued.
“You have to have ID to buy alcohol,” she stood her ground.
Now, when you struggle fiercely with the deadly sin commonly known as vanity and you’re middle aged and you’ve had two kids and you’re surgery-phobic and people often arrive at your website by googling “droopy tits” and “mesomorph butts,” you can’t be that annoyed with a woman who says you look like you could be younger than thirty. So I gave in.
I don’t live far from the store so I went home to get my ID. My husband said, “Well that’s kind of flattering, right?”
And it is, but the degree to which it was a pain in the ass in this particular instance sort of overrode the feel-good effect. I mean I never get carded and I never leave home without my ID – what are the odds that those two things would happen on the same day?
Here's my mesomorph butt three years and forty pounds ago, since a lot of people apparently wonder about it: