The Great Divide

It started happening this year.  I went out a few times with my then husband, my sister, and sometimes friends.  It didn't hit me the first time, but after two or three times of presumptiously handing my ID to the "door man" or bartender without so much as a glance, I realized something...I've crossed over.  Something happened.  I'm not even in the "questionable" category.  I've become a lady that with no doubt in anyone's mind is so far past 21 that the notion to even entertain an ID check is just a ridiculous waste of manpower and time.  OUCH!  It hurts so much worse when your younger sisters ID is practically scanned with laser technology and fingerprint dusting.  Oh my god, and the longer they look over hers, the more anxious I get that they're gonna want to take at least a quick gander at mine.  Because, hey why would she be hanging out with an old maid.  Oh crap, unless they think I'm her mom.  I even take it out and hold it there, so loosely, just waving it about.  "Look at me, look at me!"  Look, I know I look over 21.  I'm not that ignorant.  But the rule is to check if anyone looks up to 31.  That's what hurts.  I'm good with presenting myself as a mature, classy, well-maintained, and dare I say experienced woman.  But c'mon!  Even my sister doesn't get it.  I have less crow's feet and more color in my skin (so she indulges me).  I have long, bountiful blonde hair.  I'm only an itty bitty 4'10".  I'm in better shape then ever.  Throw me bone, man.  I've made the leap.  I've crossed the great divide between questionable and undoubtedly old enough to be the door man's mom. (Barely, of course).  And, thus, I've entered the dirty thirties...five years ago.  Welcome to my blog.