Regulars
I'm at that age right now where I'm over the whole "being carded" thing. At first, it was cool to be carded at a bar, and then I could whip out my I.D. and prove that yes, I am of legal drinking age, that I can, if I decide, walk up to the bar and order an alcoholic beverage of my choosing. Even a Fuzzy Navel. Or a Schlitz.

But now, there's nothing I hate more than being carded by some punk kid who I know is younger than me. Especially when he is an ass about it.

Hence, Saturday night, we go to our favorite little watering hole/restaurant, and the little punk host dude, who can't be more than 18, asks for our I.D.'s after surveying us up and down. Granted, my husband, who is 30, could pass for 17 if he is wearing a baseball hat. I think I look my age, but maybe with him, I'm younger by association. Anyway, I start to fumble around in my purse for my wallet, when a hostess happens by and says, "Oh, don't worry about them. They're regulars."

Gasp.

I'm a regular somewhere? ("Cheers" theme song begins to play softly in the background) I picture a regular to be a grizzled old man who sits in the same stool at the bar, who comes in every night around the same time, and who always has a yarn and a toothless grin for whoever buys the next round.

I am so not a regular.

But still, when she says it, I feel like, wow. I belong here. This is my hangout. And damn you, 18 year old, for trying to make me prove it to you. Screw you and your I.D.-demanding ways. Now show me to my table. You know, the one where we always sit.

Oh, and the whole carding thing? I know that in a few years, if I'm still getting carded when I go out, that will be a good thing. So I should appreciate it now, right?