Real legit.

I’m a fraud. This is what every cashier, waiter, or bartender in America must think when they look at my I.D. It happened yesterday, when I was buying some essentials for our impending move: three dollar beer and toilet paper. To be honest, I can’t say I blame the cashier for doubting I was “of age.” First of all, I look like a little boy. I think this may have something to do with the size of my head, which is unusually large in proportion to the rest of my body (just like a toddler’s). I wonder how many I.D. checkers have taken one look at me and thought, “Is…is this a giant baby? Do we serve giant babies here?” Second of all, I’m twenty-six. I’ve only been able to legally purchase alcohol for five years, and still experience a minor panic attack when I hand over my driver’s license. I’m told this reaction is actually ingrained in our DNA, which can be traced all the way back to our teenage cavemen ancestors who tried to buy fermented crab-apples off the tribal sleaze-ball. Third, and finally, of all, I never know what to do when the I.D. checker is comparing the photo to my real face. Do I smile? Do I laugh? Do I perform a little three-act play that summarizes My Life To Date and proves I am as old as that stupid plastic card says I am? Here I am being born. Here I am throwing up on the first day of second grade. Here I am taking the SAT’s. Here I am getting a routine physical. Here I am getting married. And here I am, in Trader Joe’s, being of legal age to procure fermented crab-apples. [takes bow, realizes I've forgotten toilet paper, runs back to aisle five]