forever (too) young

After a heated conversation about the cheapest wine that money can buy, I decided to show Tara, a fellow economist, how to penny-pinch with Pinot. After all, we're facing a recession people. We shouldn’t be buying anything that doesn't come in a tetra-pack.

At the LCBO, we meander through rows of premium, top-shelf beverages, until finally reaching the back. There, lining the rear wall, in all of their screw-off cap glory, are the thrifties. After pointing out which ones taste like anti-freeze, and which ones are passable, (I'm quite the coinsurer considering that weekends happen, well, weekly) we take our $7.00 selections to the counter and prepare to pay.

There, we meet a female employee. Her unplucked brows confront us. We greet them. Hello, unplucked brows. Then, in the chestnut tradition of a customer service worker, she sighs heavily, bringing attention to her colossal, heaving chest, as it nearly busts through the plastic buttons of her government issued uniform.

"ID," it said.

I can count on one hand just how many times I have been carded in this city. Lucky for me that I can, because apparently a Manitoban ID just doesn't cut it around here.

Every time I show my ID, people gape in horror and disbelief, as if I were presenting them with a Musiak shrunken head or a copy of David Gest's autobiography. It's a Manitoban age of majority card. It shows that I'm 21. It's not a dead baby, so don’t look at me like that.

Then, of course, they always ask me for another piece of photo identification, like a driver's license. I tell them that I don't drive. Again, they look at me blankly. If only I knew sign language for: what don't you get?

"Why don't you have, like, a drivers licence?"

Quick pause. I make it look like I'm actually considering her query. As if this is the first time I have given the question any real thought. Hmm. Good question, Beast. Why don't I?

But I'm not.

I don't drive. Never have, and now that I'm in a city dominated by fixed-gears and streetcars, I probably never will. Me behind a wheel might look an awful lot like this.

"Health card?"

"Here it is," I say, laying it down in front of her.

"Well, like, where's the picture?"

"It doesn't have a picture," I say.

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure," I say.

"Passport?"

"Am I going somewhere?"

"Well, like, without photo issued government ID, I can't sell you this here wine, eh."

Using the tips of my figers, I slide my age of majority card closer to her. Perhaps her eyebrows have obstructed her vision.

Alas, they have not.

"I already told you, we can't accept that," It says, exposing it's leathery tongue.

"Why not?"

"Because it's from Manitoba, and we're, like, in Ontario."

WE ARE!? Well, shit. All this time I thought I was in Churchill, and that you were a fucking polar bear.
As if that's some sort of argument anyway. I don't know what kinda Rod Sterling books they're reading over there in community college, but as far as I know, geographic location does not inform whatsoever on time or space, with the exception of UTC, of course.

Sensing my annoyance, Tara lightly pulls at my elbow.

"Lets go," she says, guiding me away from the liquor store Yeti, empty handed and red-faced. Once we are safely outside, she turns to me with a kind smile and suggests, in her signature 'half-full' kinda way, that I take the dispute as a compliment.

"I'm too young to be flattered by a situation like this," I say.

"Yes, you are," she says. "Be happy about that."

And, oddly enough, I was. Thirsty, but happy. I have the rest of my life to pick fights with everyone, and get drunk on Tuesdays. (I do plan on having a husband and children, at some point.)
But for right now, I'm thrilled to just be young and happy.

Young, and happy, and thirsty.