Friday, August 01, 2008

A withering comment

*Disclaimer. Apologies if you've heard this story before, I have talked about it over at my old blog, but there is now another part to it which justifies it being retold.

That's my story and I am sticking to it.

Growing up I was blessed with chubby cheeks. Actually, they were a curse until I was about thirty-five as they merely served to be cheek stretchers. Made it very easy for people to grab a lump of cheek and pull it. It is actually thoroughly unfair as my sister lucked in and managed to get beautiful sky scraper-esque high cheek bones. I think it was very greedy of her in the gene pool stakes - she could have at least split the difference with me.

Anyway, as a result of these cheeks (and I suppose because of being short) I have often been mistaken for looking younger than I am.


Not that it stopped me from attempting to get into pubs with my friends, however I think it served in my favour as I permanently looked like the young child who was dragged along and never ever got booked for underage drinking.

Being the Pollyanna that I am, I always claimed that it would work in my favour one day, 'Yeah but when I'm sixty I'm going to look twelve.'

So, you can imagine my delight when earlier this year I got asked for I.D in the supermarket (they have to ask you if you look twenty-five or under, down here). As the supermarket lady was asking me for I.D I was busy wondering whether you could download nominations for Nobel prizes online.

See, here's the thing.

I am forty. 40. Four-tee. (I had conned my nieces that I am actually fur-tee, which I much prefer, but my bloody brother-in-law keeps putting them right.)

And if I am being completely honest, I was fairly confident that that would the last time I would ever be asked.

Well I was nearly right.

Last night I was at the supermarket and there was a bottle of wine amongst my things. Young supermarket girl was needing her supervisor to allow the wine purchase. He, a twenty-something Indian man walked up to her, looked at me and said, 'Have you asked her for her I.D?'

My heart missed a beat.

I looked up, eyes full of anticipation, SO excited about the prospect of having to prove I was not twenty-five or under.

Young supermarket girl looked at him, half snorted, looked at me, half giggled and said, 'No.'

She might of well have said, 'Of course not, you fucking moron, take look at her, she's older than your grandmother.'



Medbh said...

Oh, Laughy Kate, I hear you. I'm turning 40 in March and *bah* getting old sucks.
I was carded so much in the US but here in Canada, the drinking age is 19, so there's no chance of it now.

laughykate said...

The extraordinarily strange part to my story is that the drinking age is 18!They just have to ask you if they think you look under 25.