Imagine my shock and dismay. I strive to be a lady, a woman of a certain age. I've cut my waist-length blonde highlighted hair to just below the shoulders, dyed it brown. I carry myself like the mature woman that I am. What follows is insanity:
Sales Clerk: "Excuse me, do you have ID?"
Sales Clerk: "ID, you look underage".
Me: "LOL you're funny thanks for the compliment" I start to wonder...is 11:00 a.m. too early for vodka?
Sales Clerk: "I'm serious kid, where's your ID?"
Me: "Really?" I think I'm having a debonaire wtf moment because she's serious.
This female clerk looked about 30 years old and was searing my eyes with sternness. I felt like I should look in the mirror to make sure I hadn't turned into a child. Never take things for granted as being the same as last time you checked...
I appreciate what I have and I feel fortunate to a certain point. But whats wrong here - I carry myself in a mature way and act my age. I dress modestly. I have no piercings nor tattoos. I'm not skinny. I make eye contact.
Me: "I might be older than you"
I find my health card and proudly show her my year of birth. 1971. I listened to Zeppelin and the Who and Cat Stevens. I wore pantsuits circa 1976 and was a teenager in the 80's.
Elderly lady behind me: "You don't show your age, dear"
Me: "Thanks, love..I inherited some good genes."
I pat her arm and she smiled. I leave the store. What just happened?
I realise this shouldn't be a problem and I appreciate this as a gift which I gratefully accept. But come on, what is it? - I'm not short and I don't own a pair of jeans, I don't follow fads or trends. I don't own an iPod and I drive a Buick. I can only see out of one eye for crying out loud. I'm a bloody cyclops. Am I really failing fortydom?
My battle scars are all internal. The wisdom is, at least there is no pity.