Looking younger than you actually are is obviously a good thing. Not so much when you look at least a decade younger and you’re trying to buy age-restricted products. As those who bothered to read the “Who the F**k is Alice” section may remember, I barely look 18 when in fact I’m approaching 32 at fast speed. This has caused me multiple instances of trouble over the years. I was refused at till when I wanted to buy some quite blunt knives for spreading butter and I am constantly harassed for ID whenever I attempt to make a bottle of anything that resembles alcohol go unnoticed on the band. Kids who were learning to walk when I was in high school ask me to present her ID with a grin on their faces. It sounds like fun, but only if you have ID on you. It you don’t, well, you’re gonna have a bad time. Buying alcohol with my husband was something that always worked without a glitch, but only until today.
The latest episode of Alice-tries-to-buy-alcohol-but-her-face-won’t-do-her-a-service ran tonight in Tesco’s. I went to the till confidently with only a bottle of Tia Maria and a box of cherry tomatoes. With my husband behind me, I was feeling I had a pretty solid back-up. As a feminist, it occurs to me that it’s embarrassing to need the company of a man to buy alcohol without questions, but that’s another story. As an introvert, I like to avoid showing my ID to every stranger in town who feels the need to ask for it, so the compromise is pretty solid. The lady at the till in Tesco’s scanned the bottle, glanced at me briefly, and asked the dreaded question. As always, I tried to convince her I’m over 30, so she shouldn’t bother. The thing is the ID always seems to be tucked comfortably on the bottom of my bag and it takes me an embarrassing minute to find it every single time. Anyhow, I got the ID out, then something unbelievable happened. The SS lady asked for my husband’s ID as well. I should mention here he is 37 and even though he looks younger than that, you can’t possibly suspect him of being underage.
At this point we were no longer simply amused, we were laughing out loud. (I think I’m gonna start referring to husband as H because I’m too lazy to type it every single time and I feel like an abbreviation would be in order). So H. told the lady he’d show her an ID if she told him how old SHE was. Sheepishly, she said 30. We thought she was having a laugh, because if I haven’t mentioned yet, she looked like someone who would go home to her grandkids. We stopped giggling when she insisted she was, in fact, 30. She was younger than me, looked like one of my aunts, so you can understand how she would get confused about other people’s ages. We ended up showing her all the ID she wanted, and if she hadn’t been on the job, I would have offered her a sip of the coffee liquor, because she sure as hell looked like she needed it.