Some lady at the bar approached me on Saturday night and asked my age.  We’ll call her Drunky.  I was a little shocked that Drunky approached me, but I responded with “27.”  Mainly because I was concentrating on playing Asia on the jukebox to piss off the pride of girls who were shooting me nasty looks from the corner all night.  (And maybe just a little bit so I could play air-drums.  ahem.) 

Anyhow, after asking, she just wheeled around and started to walk away.  I don’t think so, Drunky Loo.

I am not one to start conflict.  And in this instance, there was no conflict, anyway, save for the fact that Drunky was a little snotty about the whole thing.  But, when I start drinking, I tend to get bold.  More in the way that I have no problem dancing the Sprinkler in the middle of a dance floor.  But bold, nonetheless.

So as she started to leave I turned around and said, “Excuse me, but why are you asking?”

“All of us at the bar were taking bets on how old you were.”

Oh.  Really?  Wow.

I was a bit annoyed.  Not because I find asking people’s ages offensive.  But because I knew what she was implying.  In their eyes, I was that drunk youngin’ new to their bar scene.

I could feel the boldness in me rise.  Humor me, I thought.

“So what did you bet?”

Flat out, she replied “21.”

Again, it was intended to be an insult.

But, by golly, if I didn’t do the biggest happy dance inside!  21?  I’ll take it, ya’ll.

And I’d like to take this opportunity to send out a big thank-you to my homegirl, Drunky.  In trying to ruin my night, she made me feel like a wee spring chicken once again!

(It doesn’t matter that the way I felt the next day reminded me just exactly how old my liver really is.  I’ll just continue to live in 21-year-old “la la land” for a little while longer, if you please.)