I used to hate my driver’s license. When I first moved to Harrisburg, I was under the impression that I could somehow keep the fabulous photo circa 2006 on my ID forever.
The girl at PennDOT wasn’t having it, and I was forced to get a new picture that featured a bad haircut and a half blink.
It wouldn’t have been that terrible, but my 22-year-old self looked significantly under age, so every time I ordered something stronger than water, out came that awful picture.
I got used to it. But now, four years, three addresses and one new driver’s license later, no one seems to question my age. Perhaps ordering one drink with dinner instead of a round of Irish car bombs for the entire table lets you slip under the radar?
Either way, sometimes I miss the good ol’ days, and the last time I bought a bottle of wine was no exception. I couldn’t help but hand the cashier my driver’s license along with my debit card.
As he waved it away without even looking at it, I wanted to argue with him:
Oh, you don’t need to see my ID?
But the picture is so good!
I smiled. I wore a nice necklace.
It has my birth date on there, because, you know, the sign on the wall says you should card me if I appear under 30.
You’re not implying that I look like I’m 30, right?
I mean that’s silly; I’m only 26.
Why don’t you just look at it anyway?
I know I’m only buying one moderately priced bottle of wine for a girls’ night, but maybe you should check it out.
Just in case.
Please?
Instead, I smiled, put the cards back in my wallet and silently vowed to look into anti-wrinkle creams when I got home.
