The other day I had to speak to a Lawyer and after I was done adulting, my first impulse was to suck my thumb to restore balance. Yes, on paper I am thirty years old, but inside I’m not a day over sixteen. And I’m not talking maturity, although I do still laugh when people fart. It’s more of a feeling and the more people I talk to about it, the more I realize that that feeling never really goes away.
There isn’t a more perfect example of this feeling then when I purchase alcohol. I prescreen the LCBO cashiers in an attempt to decide which one is least likely to I.D. me. Again, I’m 30. After I’ve chosen my preferred cashier, I hop in line and vibrate with anxiety. The next defensive technique I adopted is having my Air Miles card at the ready, because what underage kid would have an Air Miles card? I end up so consumed with not getting carded that my face reads suspicious bitch despite the laugh lines and greys. I avoid eye contact, reply no thanks when the cashier asks me how I am and slide my ever-ready Air Miles card into the debit machine.
Damnit. I present my I.D. and stand worried that the layers of make-up I applied in an effort to have a nice Driver’s License photo have now made me unrecognizable in person.
Oh thank god. My body releases pounds of tension and I strut seemingly weightless out of the store. I run home as if I got away with murder. Once in my apartment, I crack open the bottle of wine, pour a glass and draw a bath. I soak away all the aches and pains of getting older while I text my best friend, “you’ll never guess what happened today, I got fuckin’ carded! Still got it!”
I most certainly DO NOT still got it.