I look young for my age. Closer to 40 than 30, I still get asked to show my ID when I buy a cigar or a six pack of beer. I don't mind it, really, for several reasons.
First, having spent a few years behind the bar serving drinks to make a living, I understand that selling alcohol to a minor carries some serious legal penalties. Further, I know that those aforementioned minors will go to great lengths to circumvent such laws in order to obtain alcohol. From the subtle, like not shaving for a couple days to grow a bit of a five o'clock shadow, to the nefarious, like a fake I.D. Second, I rationalize it by saying that being carded means that my diet of old scotch and good cigars has helped me maintain a youthful vigor and appearance. Third, and this is a bit of schadenfreude, I like to see people's eyebrows shoot up when they guess my age to be about 15 years less than it is. Kinda cool, that.
No matter the reasons, the fact remains that I don't look my age (some might -- correctly -- add that often I don't *act* my age, either, but I digress.)
Or so I thought.
My neighbors, Rick and Ben, popped over yesterday evening to watch the second half of the Dallas - Baltimore game (and while I do enjoy watching Dallas get beat, I will state for the record that it would have been nice to see them win their final game at Texas Stadium.) After the game, it was agreed upon that we three should saunter forth to the local watering hole for an evening of beers and girl watching. Technically, "agreed upon" is a bit misleading: They agreed upon it, and I was told I'd be coming along.
Into that good night we did go gently, for the roads were patchy with black ice, and none of us cared to spend any time in the ditch. Upon arrival at Ye Olde Tavern and Den of Debauchery, we showed ID to the bouncer, procured ourselves each a bottle of the finest beer available (Coor's Light, sadly,) and settled into plush seats (barstools) to observe the female of the species.
My how time flies when you're having fun, because after perhaps 45 minutes, a young lady and her friend come to talk to us. They're both rather cute, perhaps in their mid-20s, and nicely proportioned. Abby (the tall one) sits down on the stool next to me, while Lisa (the short one) sits between Ben and Rick. About 5 minutes of small talk later, Abby says to me "I know two other ladies who would like to meet you. Can they come over join us?"
"Why, certainly. I don't bite. Any friend of yours is welcome here." (Translation: OK, fine, you're not interested, but your cute and shy friends might be. I might be able to salvage a dance and a kiss out of this night after all. Or maybe you are all interested, and this could end up like one of those Penthouse Forum stories I've... uh, heard other people talk about.)
Abby excuses herself to go get this mystery shy person, Lisa goes with her, and Rick, Ben, and I clink beer bottles together: We might be damn near old farts, but we've still got that 20-year old Smooth-With-the-Ladies Mojo working.
At which point, Abby and Lisa return. And introduce the other two ladies.
Who happen to be their moms.
I was hit on by the mom of the girl I was hitting on.
What would Freud say?