Too Tired To Stand
At the supermarket, coming home from work (you can buy wine at the grocery. I love the civilized world.) after a ten hour shift, the girl stopped me.
“I need to see ID.”
I looked at her.
“I can’t sell it to you otherwise.”
“I’m 28. Born 1977.”
The glare I got back was not encouraging.
“You look younger than 25.”
“I’ll be 29 next month.”
Nothing.
Luckily, I did, in fact, have my wallet on me.
“I have a photo Health Card.”
“I can’t accept this.”
“An old driver’s licence?”
Scrutinized.
“This one time,” she finally announced.
After a moment, my chicken and sauvignon blanc going into krinkly plastic bags, it came to me: the retort.
“I’m you’re senior.”
The man behind me laughed.
“I need to see ID.”
I looked at her.
“I can’t sell it to you otherwise.”
“I’m 28. Born 1977.”
The glare I got back was not encouraging.
“You look younger than 25.”
“I’ll be 29 next month.”
Nothing.
Luckily, I did, in fact, have my wallet on me.
“I have a photo Health Card.”
“I can’t accept this.”
“An old driver’s licence?”
Scrutinized.
“This one time,” she finally announced.
After a moment, my chicken and sauvignon blanc going into krinkly plastic bags, it came to me: the retort.
“I’m you’re senior.”
The man behind me laughed.
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