I got carded at the supermarket today. The cashier seemed incredibly apologetic for asking for my license. Meanwhile, my heart jumped with joy.
I’ve always loved getting carded. I have no problem handing over my license and believing that my wrinkle cream is working. And I especially love getting carded with my husband. Since I’m (cough, cough) years older than him, it’s always flattering to be mistaken for younger.
Today, my husband was not with me at the supermarket. But the thrill was still real. “I’m sorry, did you say that you need my license to buy this beer?” I asked loudly while looking for an audience. The woman behind me didn’t even look up from her cell phone.
“Yes, ma’am,” the cashier said again. “I’m sorry but we card everyone.”
“Well, I’m sure you don’t card everyone,” I smiled sweetly. I put my head towards my purse before she could respond. I fumbled through my wallet looking for my license among the various coffee shop gift cards, fitness passes and hotel rewards identifications.
When I found the card, I handed it over with a brave smile. She scanned for the birthdate and nodded. “Yep, that’s how old I thought you were.”