Are Seven

One of the signs of aging is when you’ve been over the legal drinking age for so long that it starts to become kind of flattering when you get carded, the thought being that, even though you’re well, WELL above the age of 21, you’re still getting mistaken as someone who could easily be on the cusp, still in your early 20’s.

I don’t buy it. Getting gray hair and then losing it is enough of a pain. There should be some glory in looking well over the age, and that glory should be that I should walk into any old bar, order a drink and have someone bring it to me. I know that I don’t look like I’m 24 or 19; I look like I’m 36, or 30 at least. Let’s put my gray hairs to work instead of letting them hang out there on the temples, all lazy-like. Listen to those hairs. They’re talking, saying, “I’ve done this before. Many times.” Yes, I’d be flattered if I thought that someone sincerely suspected that I was in my early 20’s, but no one does. So let me get some advantage out of that.

I know that spots that sling the devils drink “have to ask”, but just fair warning to all that when asked to get out my wallet and pull my ID out of it and have bouncers pore over it with a flashlight or waiters act like they’re paying me a big, fake compliment: I won’t give a big smile along with my ID and say, “Ha ha! Thanks for asking!” I’ll frown and give a frustrated sigh that’s so immature that maybe then I’ll feel that there’s justification for asking for my ID.

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