Ten or Eleven Good Ones
I went to HEB the other day to buy whole milk (for the kids) and fruity malt liquor beverages (for me). When I got to the check-out, the pimply-faced, broken-voiced, 17-year old checker looked me over and then asked to see some I.D.
That’s right. I. Got. Carded.
Woo hoo! I was thrilled. Doesn’t take much these days to tickle my fancy, particularly considering my upcoming birthday, which I am not looking forward to. I handed him my driver’s license, at which point he nearly swallowed his tongue and said,
He stared at me, shamelessly checked me out (and I don’t mean the groceries), and continued with,
But wait. There’s more.
I tried to ignore the fact that he just virtually nullified the glory of being carded and said,
Then, he said (in all sincerity),
Ten or eleven good ones left. What should I do with them? I better decide quickly and make them count. I'll let you know how it goes.
That’s right. I. Got. Carded.
Woo hoo! I was thrilled. Doesn’t take much these days to tickle my fancy, particularly considering my upcoming birthday, which I am not looking forward to. I handed him my driver’s license, at which point he nearly swallowed his tongue and said,
“Wow!”
He stared at me, shamelessly checked me out (and I don’t mean the groceries), and continued with,
“Oh, I had NO idea.”
But wait. There’s more.
I tried to ignore the fact that he just virtually nullified the glory of being carded and said,
“Thanks. I’m about to turn 35. It’s very nice to be carded.”
Then, he said (in all sincerity),
“Oh, 35. That’s not bad. You have at least 10 or 11 more good years left.”
Ten or eleven good ones left. What should I do with them? I better decide quickly and make them count. I'll let you know how it goes.
Comments
And then, there's my little sister, who decided to inform me this year that I was "well into middle age now." Lovely.