Getting Carded – A Compliment No Longer

Nope, not dead yet. The birthday curse didn’t get me, though it was a good day to stay in bed and pray for midnight. Been busy as all heck, though, as fall comes around, work gets crazy, and I end up with four Cub Scout meetings in as many nights.

I think I have tonight off, though. Which means I can do laundry. Man, my life is so glamorous, isn’t it?

I’m not generally a big drinker. Or a drinker at all, for that matter. But with IDEA 2004 reauthorization (if you don’t know what this is, you don’t want to) and No Child Left Behind, everything at work is changing faster than I can adjust to it. Two Fridays in a row, I’ve felt the need for a little wine. Or rum. Take your pick.

So I went to the store, picked out a nice but not too nice (read cheap) bottle of wine, and picked up a little sumfin’-sumfin’ to make daquiris. The sign beside the cash register read, in big, bold letters:

We Card, Whether You Are 21 or 91!

Okay, I get it. So I get my ID ready, and the lady behind the counter doesn’t ask for it. Just scans my stuff in.

“Do you want to see my ID?” I ask.

She smiles – you know, that patronizing smile – and says, “No, Ma’am. I think you’re over 21.”

Gee, thanks. Okay, maybe the 7-year-old in tow was a clue. Maybe it was because I haven’t hit the Loving Care in far too long and all my grays are winking at her. Maybe it’s the platinum visa I was paying with. Who knows? But if they card to 91, well heck! Do I really look that bad?

Jenny Crusie talks on her blog about how her passport makes her look like a drab, middle-aged woman from Ohio. I guess I’m just a drab, soon-to-be middle aged woman from South Dakota.  This isn’t exactly a revelation. I fell into Mom Mode twelve years ago and have no desire to be anything else. I’ll never fit a bikini again, a lesson Brittney Spears could learn. Along with taking some voice lessons, but that’s another blog.

The thing is, I’d like to be reminded every now and then that I’m not totally past it. That there’s still time to get that bikini body back, if I want to. (Back? Did I ever have one?) There’s still time to drink wine and be merry (read – stressed to the max). There’s still time to publish a novel.

Side note: I read a study not long ago that says mothers of special needs children age quicker. The DNA actually deteriorates at a faster rate than other people. Wonder if that works for dads, too, but judging from my husband, who looks exactly the same as he did 13 years ago, I’m guessing not so much.

So maybe I am doomed to be a drab, middle-aged woman from South Dakota. But how many of those can say they’ve had drinks with Jenny Crusie?

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