I’m in line at Whole Foods, 7 a.m. sharp.
Those of us, 55 and over get to shop before the store opens at 8.
We’re patiently standing on our marks, 6 feet apart on heavy strips of gaffer’s tape they’ve laid onto the sidewalk in front of the store.
Masked and bagged, we amble up, like a breadline, while a security guard lets 8 people in at a time.
When it’s my turn he looks at me and says, “Excuse me, may I see your ID?”
I’m startled, since as far as I can see, I’m the only one he’s asked.
“Do you think I’m not old enough?”
“I just wanna be sure,” he says.
“Really? I say, as if I just won the car. “Really?” I say again.
The woman behind me says, “Oh for crying out loud, hurry up. Show him your damned license already.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m just excited that he thinks I’m younger.”
“Well nobody’s gettin’ any younger, standin’ in this line.”
The security guard looks at me and says, “I’m sorry Miss, it’s okay, you can go right in.”
“You called me Miss?” I say, smiling like a Rose Bowl Queen, “you just made my day, my year even.”
I smile at the woman behind me, now whirling passed, who shakes her head and says, “Next time I’ll make sure I’m in front’a you.”
Miss, still on her white cloud says, “Okay, see ya then. Have a nice day,” scampering up the escalator like a gushing 16 year-old.