I’ve always been told I look young for my age. Just last week, my friend’s younger brother who is in his mid-20s said that he thought we were the same age. Okay, so he was a decade off. I’m good with that.

It’s only been in the last two or three years that I’ve finally not been carded EVERY time I order a glass of wine or buy some sort of alcohol at the grocery store. It’s usually small quantities for cooking, but still. I looked so young that the clerks had to ask for my ID.

The past couple of years must have been pretty rough ones, though. I guess having 2 wee beasts in diapers at the same time, 2 that always wanted to be carried, 2 that cried and cried without articulating what it wrong…those things must have aged me quite a bit in a short amount of time.

How do I know?

I just ran up to do the weekly grocery shopping and a small 4-pack of white wine for cooking was on my list. I had my ID in hand, ready to happily show it and hear the familiar “Wow, you certainly don’t look your age” comment.

I waited.

And waited.

And saw the clerk scan the wine without so much of a glance at me to question my age.

My brow furrowed in concern (probably causing a dreaded wrinkle and only adding to my old lady visage). Why hasn’t he asked for my ID? I know he has to punch in my birthdate as verification that I’m of legal age. When is he going to ask for my ID? What could he have done that would render the ID in my hand — close enough that he can see it — unnecessary?!

I got my answer when I was home and had time to scrutinize the receipt.

Larry, my now-not-so-favorite-clerk, verified my birthdate on his own. 10/10/1910

That would make me 99.

At first I felt a bit insulted. But now that I’ve been thinking about it for a few minutes, another part of my brain is chiming in to say that if I’m really that old, I’ve missed quite a few birthday celebrations and I deserve cake. Lots and lots of cake.

So if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with flour, chocolate, butter and an oven…