I sat down at the bar and ordered, “something with whiskey in it.” The bartender asked to see my id. I fumbled through my bag for my money clip.
I handed my id to the bartender. He checks it over and exclaims, “Oh, I wasn’t expecting that. Good for you!” He hands my id back to a slightly confused looking me. What does that even mean? Was he surprised that I was from Chicago? Maybe I look like I’m from Texas or something. Wait, I know, maybe he was talking about my change in hair color. My hair is now bright red instead of the jet black I had in the photo.
After a couple of stunned moments it finally hit me! What do bartenders, doormen, and clerks all look at on ids? The good old DOB or date of birth. He was talking about the year I was born in. After making this profound realization, I immediately asked, “Are you calling me old?” To which he replied, “No, I just meant that you look good.”
So it’s official ladies and gentlemen! I “look good for my age.” You may be thinking, “That’s a compliment! What the hell is this woman complaining about?” I used to look good, plain and simple, but the addition of those three little words – for, my, and age – just make me cringe! I’m not even 30, and I’m already considered old? I don’t feel old. Hell, I’ve been feeling more energized, healthier, and happier in these past couple months than I have been in a long time. I have been enjoying being me! And one comment from some random dude throws all that hard work out the window. I guess that’s what the whiskey is for. After a couple of pours I forgot how old I was and that I hated the guy who highlighted my age in the first place. I stopped comparing myself to those around me and let myself enjoy the moment without feeling like it was time to drag my old ass to bed.
As I grow older situations like this are only going to happen more frequently. Hopefully, they will all be tied up in backwards compliments and cocktails.