"You really still get IDed?" was the question asked of me. It was on March 20, 2008. We had just finished our final soccer game of the winter season (the one I didn't get injured playing) and we went out for a beer at the Kit Kat Klub. It was a school night, and my grey hair was visible, and yes I still got IDed. I remembered the date. I actually keep track of the last time I get IDed for a very simple reason:
I know the day is coming when I will never get IDed again.
At first, getting IDed was a proud occasion. I no longer had to use a fake one and pretend to be someone else. I don't think I could make it as a secret agent; there was entirely too much pressure on keeping track of a second identity. But once you turn 21, it is a sign of pride that you can proudly claim your identity and the drinking rights now bestowed upon you.
Then getting IDed became a bit of a hassle. Everywhere you went, you had to show your card. My word as a gentleman was not good enough. My fate was in the hands of a small rectangular piece of plastic issued by a state government.
Then it became annoying. I was trying to be a grown up and have some professional credibility in the world. Getting IDed was a slap in the face to my credentials. I was not exuding an aura of professionalism that the waiter or barkeep immediately recognized. To them, I was some junior level wanna be who had not achieved any level of success. Success did not permeate from my entire being. To them, I was some pimply faced punk trying to bluff my way into adulthood.
Then it stopped happening…and I didn't really notice. At least for a while I didn't notice. When I realized that it was not happening, it was a bit of a relief. One less thing to deal with, so to speak. Then not getting IDed stopped become the exception; it became the norm. Large periods of time when go by when the ID would remain safely tucked away. When it was asked for, it was at a bar where they IDed everyone. It was not because I looked young; everyone got nabbed, so it really didn't count (it is kinda like landing in airport in a state you have never been to, but then checking that state off your list because technically you have been there).
That is why March 20, 2008 was a big day. They were not IDing everyone. It was selective. My friend who questioned me getting IDed asked him, how old did you think I was. He said 25. He honestly thought I might have been close to 21. My friend thinks it must have been the full moon, or the fact I was in soccer duds. Whatever. It still goes down as a good day in my book.
Since then it has been a bit of a drought. I have been living in the glory of the March day for almost three months. Some of the bars I have been going to have a lot of younger patrons. I figured these would almost be gimmies for getting IDed, but no. Last week I went to Sweeneys after Grand Old Days. The doorman checked the three people in front of me for ID. When I reached for mine, he just waved me in. I thought this might be the end or the road. The day had come and I was just realizing it now.
As I write this today, I am in the Indianapolis airport heading home. Bad weather in Chicago has caused my return trip from Charlotte to Minneapolis to take the circuitous route through Detroit, Indianapolis, Memphis before heading home (don't ask how or why). I am reminded by advice given to me several years ago about air travel: Nothing good can come from flying through Chicago.
To kill time between flights, I find a bar and get some food. I order nachos and a beer (not in that order). The waitress asked to see my ID.
June 8, 2008. The streak continues for another day!
I know the day is coming when I will never get IDed again.
At first, getting IDed was a proud occasion. I no longer had to use a fake one and pretend to be someone else. I don't think I could make it as a secret agent; there was entirely too much pressure on keeping track of a second identity. But once you turn 21, it is a sign of pride that you can proudly claim your identity and the drinking rights now bestowed upon you.
Then getting IDed became a bit of a hassle. Everywhere you went, you had to show your card. My word as a gentleman was not good enough. My fate was in the hands of a small rectangular piece of plastic issued by a state government.
Then it became annoying. I was trying to be a grown up and have some professional credibility in the world. Getting IDed was a slap in the face to my credentials. I was not exuding an aura of professionalism that the waiter or barkeep immediately recognized. To them, I was some junior level wanna be who had not achieved any level of success. Success did not permeate from my entire being. To them, I was some pimply faced punk trying to bluff my way into adulthood.
Then it stopped happening…and I didn't really notice. At least for a while I didn't notice. When I realized that it was not happening, it was a bit of a relief. One less thing to deal with, so to speak. Then not getting IDed stopped become the exception; it became the norm. Large periods of time when go by when the ID would remain safely tucked away. When it was asked for, it was at a bar where they IDed everyone. It was not because I looked young; everyone got nabbed, so it really didn't count (it is kinda like landing in airport in a state you have never been to, but then checking that state off your list because technically you have been there).
That is why March 20, 2008 was a big day. They were not IDing everyone. It was selective. My friend who questioned me getting IDed asked him, how old did you think I was. He said 25. He honestly thought I might have been close to 21. My friend thinks it must have been the full moon, or the fact I was in soccer duds. Whatever. It still goes down as a good day in my book.
Since then it has been a bit of a drought. I have been living in the glory of the March day for almost three months. Some of the bars I have been going to have a lot of younger patrons. I figured these would almost be gimmies for getting IDed, but no. Last week I went to Sweeneys after Grand Old Days. The doorman checked the three people in front of me for ID. When I reached for mine, he just waved me in. I thought this might be the end or the road. The day had come and I was just realizing it now.
As I write this today, I am in the Indianapolis airport heading home. Bad weather in Chicago has caused my return trip from Charlotte to Minneapolis to take the circuitous route through Detroit, Indianapolis, Memphis before heading home (don't ask how or why). I am reminded by advice given to me several years ago about air travel: Nothing good can come from flying through Chicago.
To kill time between flights, I find a bar and get some food. I order nachos and a beer (not in that order). The waitress asked to see my ID.
June 8, 2008. The streak continues for another day!
6 comments:
I was carded twice today. Perhaps its the weather.
Perhaps you look a decade younger than me, too. Just sayin....
When I get ID'ed...which isn't often...I give an extra big tip to that wonderful bartender/waitor who asked. Isn't a wonderful thing!!! And, to think I had to memorize some sorority sister of mine's home address only 15 short years ago and pray I wouldn't get asked...oh how times change
Here in DC, if waiters are caught not IDing someone, they immediately lose their job and can spend up to one night in jail.
is true about DC, we got kicked out of Kramer Books because 1 person (over 30) didn't have her ID!
Don't ruin it for me! Won't you let me enjoy the moment!
Post a Comment