Can I See Your ID?

This is the second time I have heard this question in the last six weeks. The first time, both Bryan and I were carded in a dodgy Cuban restaurant when we ordered a couple of beers with dinner. This time I am standing at the checkout of the grocery store. Perhaps white zinfandel (my mom is coming this week) and Red Truck brand red wine (again, my mom will be here this week) are popular among the kids here in Florida. “I’m sorry,” the class of 2006 graduate cashier said, “it’s just that you don’t look over thirty.” “No problem,” I say, feeling good that the extra 20 pounds I am still carrying around has clearly filled in the cheek hollows that probably would have revealed my age 10 months ago. After seeing my ID the cashier went on to tell me how great she thought New Jersey was and how lucky I am to live there. Then the bagger (yes, they have actual baggers here in Florida, all the time, not just when Johnny has nothing to clean up in aisle 5) offers to bring my cart out to my car. Perhaps from his angle I do look my age and in need of some assistance.