| Current mood: |  blah |
Almost carded.
At the store on Tuesday, I went through the express line to purchase shampoo, cold medicine, Febreeze, and aluminum foil. The cashier said, "Whah whah whah whah?"
I said, "Pardon?"
She said, "Are you over eighteen?"
"Oh. Yes!"
Then I glanced at my items--which obviously did not include tobacco products, porn, guns, or ammo--to figure out why she'd asked. It must have been the cold medicine. Only grown-ups are supposed to buy it or something? Because when you've gone from seventeen to eighteen years of age you will magically no longer abuse over-the-counter medicine to produce hallucinogenic effects? (Which, by the way, I don't ever do. I ODed on cough syrup when I was around thirteen entirely by accident once. It was one of the worst nights EVER. When I use liquid cough syrup, I measure my doses carefully.)
I said to the cashier, "Do you need to see my I.D.?"
She shook her head, no.
Maybe by then she'd actually looked at me to see that I can't quite pass for seventeen anymore.
(But if I could, you know I'd be a "Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen!")
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