There are few things more irritating than being 21 and not having your ID on you when you want a beer. When you're underage, the simple act of ordering a pint of whatever domestic swill they have on tap without getting carded fills you with the kind of thrill that I'm told forty-year-old women get when they do get carded. You're annoyed when they ask for ID and you can't produce it (and let's admit it, fake IDs are cheating), but the whole thing seems like high adventure.
When you're 21, though: Not so much. Producing ID becomes an enormous hassle. Like, a hassle on the same level as, I don't know, trying to find a parking space in the grocery store parking lot right before Thanksgiving. Just this moment of total, irrational annoyance. Listen, assholes, I know I'm 21. I could give a shit if you know. Just let me into your stupid bar so that I can have the privilege of paying you six bucks for a criminally weak gin and tonic in a plastic cup, okay? Please?
I say this because, at the moment, many of my classmates at Generic Upper-Crust Private College are out drinking in the bars in town, which have wisely agreed to turn away any and all townies, because townies by definition just hate the fuck out of us because we're arrogant little bastards or whatever. I, on the other hand, left my ID at a restaurant 25 minutes away. I'm not all that fussed about missing the opportunity to hang out and get drunk with people I've spent four years ignoring--I like bars, and God knows I like to drink, but I just like to pick and choose my company--but I swear to God, every time I walk into a place and realize that I don't have my ID on me, I am filled with almost completely unjustifiable indignance.
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