Hook, we went to Saloun, a dive bar next door packed with collar-popping dudes wearing khaki pants covered in embroidered whales.
Mid beer sip, a tall, skinny guy that barely looked old enough to drive frantically tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Yo, I need your ID to pass back to my friend."
I haven't passed back my ID in at least eight years. And I certainly had no reason to start those shenanigans up again. (Oh, the days of showing an ID of someone that clearly wasn't you and offering up a Blockbuster card as a 2nd form of identification.)
After I stared at him for a few seconds trying to process this request, I said with a little bit of embarrassment, "I'm kind of old. I don't think it would work to pass back my ID."
He asked, "How old?"
His eyes widened. He motioned to my friends and exclaimed, "Really??? Are the rest of them that old?"
In a very serious tone, I replied, "Yes, some are even older. The two blond girls are 30."
At this point, his bewilderment was getting old. It was as if he saw the freaking Golden Girls at the bar.
Then my young friend asked me to help him find someone else that would offer their ID to help get his 18 year old cousin into the bar. I decided to go with the grandmotherly vibe. I took him by the arm, and walked him over to a table of drunk girls who were probably a better fit.
So what if 29 sounds old. At least someone thought I looked young enough to "pass back an ID".