What Goes Around Comes Around

When I was a young thing, sixteen to be exact, my friend Carolyn and I went to a party. I wasn’t really a wild child, but liked to hang out with those who had a more exciting life than me. Carolyn and I didn’t want to be the only people at the party not drinking, so we split a beer. Unfortunately, I hadn’t eaten all day. No one warned me beer doesn’t hang out in an empty stomach. It wasn’t long until I found myself in the front yard, depositing that slightly used beer under a weeping willow tree. Even though the very thought of drinking a beer made my stomach churn, the day I turned twenty-one I drove to the liquor store and bought a six pack of beer. Why? To prove I could. When asked by the cashier to show my ID, I smiled and proudly produced my Illinois driver’s license.

Back in the day, movies didn’t have ratings. Movie productions were governed by the Hays Code, which spelled out what was acceptable and what was unacceptable content for movies produced in the United States. Because of this, theater owners sold tickets to anyone and everyone. Of course, in the time of Old Yeller, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Cinderella, who would have expected nudity, profanity, violence and drug use? In the 1950s there wasn’t a need for ratings. When movies became more graphic, the Hays Code became obsolete. In November 1968, our current rating system took effect. By then I was 18 years old and wouldn’t be barred from seeing any movie. Right? Wrong!

In April 1989, on a sunny Saturday afternoon in Dallas, Texas, I decided to go see an afternoon matinee at our local theater. I stood in a long line of excited movie goers, anxiously waiting to be scared out of my wits by the newest Stephen King movie. When it was my turn to pay, I handed the ticket taker a five dollar bill. It was then I heard, “ID please.” At the time, I was thirty-nine years old. I smiled and handed her my Texas driver’s license.

The week I turned forty, I went to Austin with John. Since he always paid, I left my purse in the trunk and we walked to a bar on Sixth Street for a margarita and some country western dancing. When we started to walk in, an extremely large man stepped in front of us. He let John pass, but stopped me. “ID please,” he said. I laughed out loud. He didn’t. John walked me back to the car to get my ID. Back at the bar, I smiled and handed Mr. Big my Texas driver’s license.

After that incident, the only time I remember being asked to produce ID was when writing a check or confirming my identification, not for proving how old I was—until yesterday.

Bob and I went to Menard’s to buy paint for the house. After pouring over paint samples and waiting for the paint to be mixed, we were starving. The nearest eatery was Ryan’s, so we decided to go there. Inside, Bob noticed a sign advertising their Senior Citizen’s discount. The girl didn’t automatically give us the discount, Bob had to ask.

“One discount?” She asked, looking at Bob.

“No, two,” he said.

She glared at me.

I asked, “What do you consider senior?”

“Sixty,” she responded.

“I turned sixty in May,” I said.

I knew the definition of stink eye, but never had one looking at me—until then. “You don’t look sixty. I’ll need to see your ID,” she said.

I thought the days of digging in my purse for my driver’s license were over. I went from age twenty-one and being angry when asked for identification, to being sixty and happily turning over my driver’s license. After all, how could I be angry with someone who didn’t think I looked old enough for a senior citizen discount?