Another dream shattered

I was at the grocery the other day, buying, among other things, a bottle of wine. I unloaded the contents of my cart onto the conveyor belt, and when my bottle of Moscato reached the cashier, she said in a bored voice, "I'm going to need to see your ID."

For a brief, shining moment I stood there, bathed in a golden glow of triumph. I may be shaped like a pumpkin. I may have borne two children, had my gall bladder removed, been coloring my hair since I was forty-two and striven to avoid peeing when I sneeze since way before then, but dang! I have still GOT IT. The bloom of youth!!!

I scrabbled through my wallet to pull out my driver's license and as I handed it over with a self-satisfied smile smeared all over my face like jam, the cashier gave it a disinterested glance, handed it back and said, as if she could read my mind, "We have to ask everyone now. Indiana state law...." Her unuttered final words were clearly, "even for our elderly patrons like you."

"Oh," I said, deflated, and pushed my cart out to the parking lot with my head hung down like Tom Dooley's. And then drank an extra half-glass of wine that evening for medicinal purposes.