This past Tuesday, after a long day of work, I wandered into a brand new little family owned liquor store in my neighborhood to get my favorite beer, Wild Little Thing by Sierra Nevada.
I tossed the sixer onto the counter and the cashier smiled and asked for my ID. Being a solid decade over the legal drinking age, I am always delighted at an ID request.
I handed him the card and he said, “Wow! You look young! I mean, you are young, but you look younger!”
“Thank you so much! You are only as young as you feel, right? Just don’t tell my back or my knees.” I smiled and responded.
“How old do you think I am?” he asked.
I looked him up and down and assumed that he was probably in his early fifties, but I like to be kind so I said, “Umm… about 42, I guess?”
“OH! Well… actually… I just turned 34…”
My mouth dropped and for some reason I said, “No way!” so he proceeded to pull out his ID to show me the year he was born…
My voice, which is usually quite deep and raspy took a much higher pitch and I began to walk backwards facing him, screeching something like, “Well the gray in your beard makes you look distinguished…”
I have never wanted to do the Michigan J. Frog top-hat, leg kick dance out of a place so badly.
And so now I can never go back there again.