I walk into the bar wearing khaki shorts and a butterfly t-shirt, jeans and a flirty top, a dress and high heels. The bartender (male, female, young, old, jaded or not) gives me a one-over with unimpressed, diplomatic eyes. He can't just throw me out, but I know he would if he could. I'm walking a thin line, his look says. I'm testing his patience; children aren't allowed in here. But he also doesn't want to lose a tip, so he stares at me and waits. He won't ask for ID unless I don't offer it.
I take a seat (pushing up with my arm and lifting onto tiptoe to climb onto the stool) and sheepishly reach in my pocket. The only things it contains are money and my driver's license; I hate purses. I fumble to keep the money in while pulling out proof of myself. The unrehearsed feel of the movement makes me blush, which makes him believe I'm about to lie. Possibly without speaking. I try using my "grown-up" words anyway and fail:
"Here you go..." It's high and babyish. I can't deepen it even if I try.
His bored eyes shift to the plastic card. And despite having to reveal myself in every bar, restaurant or outdoor barbeque since the day I turned 21, my stomach drops as I wonder whether my birthday really is printed on there, whether he'll see it, whether he'll kick me out anyway. In middle-of-the-road countries such as Australia, where the drinking age is 18 and they actually check ID, I still get a once-over from the bouncers who seem impressed at my non-aging. Some are even brave enough to mention something.
"You look so young!" they say. Their eyes widen, their mouths contort into disbelieving, exaggerated grins -- the looks of the people who present Publisher's Clearing House prizes. Those looks say I'm not winning this money, but I'm supposed to act happy that you get it. Woohoo!! "You'll love it when you're forty." I actually love it now, all except for the suspicion of it all.
My ID is returned. The bartender's duty is done. It no longer matters if I am a 40 year old with a baby face or a 12 year old with a fake license. He gives my chest a gander, now that he knows he can, now that he knows I'm legal, then gets my drink.
The plastic card that I carry with me, that lets me drive a car or order a drink or bet in Vegas (Sometimes getting carded at each machine and by individual guards who watch me long after I've ponied up the thing that identifies me, as if I'll reveal my true age by smearing candy on the machines or wiping a booger under the seat) is like a secret handshake between strangers. We both know the dance by heart, but still don't trust the person doing it with us.
And when I begin to sway and babble, as I always do after downing only one cocktail, the bartender watches me like an adult letting a kid touch a hot stove just so she'll never do it again. He smirks and offers me a stronger drink, then balks when I accept his offer.
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