No wonder there's a meth craze

So, there I was, in making my annual , monthly , weekly , daily (Just kidding... the right answer is weekly.) (OK, OK: Weekly-ish) trip to the liquor store to stock up on wine, when the cashier asked for proof that I was 21 and "legal."

I am 40.

And not for much longer, either. No, no, I'm not dying. Least I don't think so, anyway. Why? What did you hear? No, no, I meant that I would be turning 41 soon. Well, not too soon, but kinda.

Anyway! Could we get back to the point here?

I got carded.

Hold it right there. DO NOT fast-forward to the comment button to berate me for my lack of gratitude that I look 20 because you know, you could look 20, too, if your acne was crowding out your wrinkles, you had no boobs to speak of, and you just couldn't quite figure out the grown-up clothes yet. It doesn't mean that it's a good 20.

Also? I don't actually look 20 - obviously, the liquor store cashier couldn't see my big fat butt was new, and a buzzard who no longer remembered that the under-21 set doesn't typically buy wine (by the case), but instead a bottle of rum and an entire 2-liter bottle of Coca-Cola to go with it.

Also, the under-21 crowd is generally not banging on the liquor store door at 9 a.m. because that is when it fits into the errand time. Most under-21s are still out drinking then.

So anyway, the woman cards me.

I kinda give her the "Yeah, I know you have to ask because it's store policy" shrug, and hand over my ID, thinking she will be handing it right back with the "Yeah, you know I have to ask, and obviously it's a stupid policy" reciprocal shrug.

But no.

She looks at the thing, actually gasps and then yells, "Oh, MY GOD! BOB! Get over here! How old do you think this lady is?" she asks, gesturing at me with her chin.

Really there is nothing more fun than to be standing, half off-balance, meekly holding your case of wine, at 9 in the frickin' morning while a 65-ish year old man shuffles over to stand and give you the once-over. Four times. With special attention to your hips and eye wrinkles.

Bob does a bouncy "I'm thinking" thing with his head, squints a bit and cocks his head. You can see the wheels spinning and tell yourself that if he asks you to turn around, that is when you will scoop your pride off the floor and leave - even if it means leaving the case of wine behind.

"Thirty-nine," he pronounces.

Bastard, I think, but do not actually say, in case he gets pissed and kicks me out before I get to buy my wine. 'Cuz by now I really need it.

It doesn't even get to be over, though.

Marcie (by now I know her name is Marcie. Also? Arms falling off, here, hello!?) decides to contest his decision-making process, arguing that she telegraphed the answer in her visible astonishment.

They need unbiased, neutral parties to make the determination of my age.

They summon some.

Now let me step back here a second to remind you that it is now about 9:30 a.m.

In a liquor store.

It's not really a savory group that hangs out in liquor stores at 9:30 a.m. So really, it's just me, and a bunch o' drunks.

OK. Fine. You're right: Just me and a bunch o' drunks.

Still, though - they are scarier-looking than me and they are now all busy assessing me and offering their opinions. "Well, no gray, but wrinkles..."

"No, no - I see a gray..."

It ain't pretty.

OK. So all you smart people out there are like, Hello?! Why are you still standing there? To which I can only respond, Shut up. Aren't you supposed to be working right now?

Well, let me tell you. I did think at the time, Hm... It is possible this is evidence that I actually have sold my soul to the God of Wine Dionysius, because I should be walking out.

But I also kind of figured, at this point, I'd already done half the "work" as it was. Four assorted strange and random men have now examined me very, very closely. It's not like I can take that back now, right? Also, I would have to go to another store, pick out my 12 bottles of wine, and perhaps start this carding business all over.

Besides... we're almost done, right? How much worse can this possibly get?

Well, since you asked.

Right about then is when the detail police officer ambles over to see what all the commotion is about.

And right about then is when I actually started looking for one of those Candid Camera people. This could not really be happening, could it? Who would come in next? My kid's First Grade Teacher? The PTO President? The Garden Club President? My DAD?!

But no one pops out to tell me this is a joke, so I assume my standard not guilty expression (oddly, it's the same one I adopt when I stand by the side of the road, poop bag at the ready, waiting for Dog to finish his business, figuring I am assuring the rest of the world that yes, I will be picking it up. I'm sorry my lame dog needs to poop. But look, it' s not even on a lawn. Just right here in the curb... hey, wait... did you hear me? No, look. Come back, driver. Really, I am picking it up. Come back...) and takes the ID card from the cashier and basically CARDS ME AGAIN.

He looks at the front. He looks at the back. He looks at the front again. He looks at me. I stand there, in proper dog poop scooping position.

With a motley crew of five old people around me, waiting with bated breath for his pronouncement.

The cop looks at my case of wine. Then at me. Then my wrinkles. He touches his walkie-talkie thing.

What? Is he going to call this in? Really?

"'Eh," he shrugs, flipping my ID back at me. "I'd-a said 42."

Well!

All I know is THANK GOD I don't have to go back.

For a whole week.

-ish.