Supermarkets in the UK aren’t allowed to sell energy drinks to under-sixteens. For sake of ease, the one I work for puts it under the challenge-twenty-five policy; if you look younger than twenty-five, you have to show ID. We can be fired if we don’t ask. I’m by the checkouts when there’s a loud commotion at self-serve, so I head on over just in case.

A boy who looks about sixteen is loudly swearing at my colleague on self-serve, gesturing wildly, whilst the girl he’s with, who looks eighteen or nineteen, is trying to calm him down. My colleague tells him to leave, and he does, but not before throwing what he was going to purchase on the floor and pushing over our social distancing signs, barriers, a tower of baskets, and some stock. The girl apologises profusely to my colleague and follows him out, looking mortified. I head in and help my colleague pick up stuff.

Me: “You okay? I can cover you if you need to have a break?”

Colleague: “I’m fine. I finish in a couple of minutes anyway.”

Me: “What an end to your shift. What even was his problem?”

Colleague: “Wanted to buy an energy drink. He looked young, so I asked for ID. He didn’t have any; he left his license at home. I told him I couldn’t sell him that, but I could hold onto his stuff whilst he picked a different drink to go with his meal deal. ‘I’m 21!! Raaarraarraar,’ effing this, effing that. Honestly.”

Me: “He was twenty-one?!”

Colleague: “I know, he looked like he was thirteen! And having the hormonal rage of a pubescent teenager isn’t going to make me think that you’re old enough to buy it!”

The local casino is near both my mom’s work and my university, so some days, when our lunch breaks overlap, we and my stepdad meet for lunch there. I turned twenty-one about eight months ago, but I still look young for my age. This means that the staff looks a little extra hard at my ID when I enter the building. I sit down with my family at a table, and while we’re waiting for our food, we notice a security guard walking nearby.

Stepdad: “Is he looking at [My Name]?

Mom: “I think he is.”

I have a feeling this means he’s debating how old I am, but we brush it off for the time being. After passing us about three times, the guard comes over.

Security Guard: “Excuse me. Can I see your ID?”

Me: “Sure.”

I hand him my ID, and he stares at it for a long time.

Security Guard: “I’m sorry. The staff in the security room noticed you and thought you looked really young. I had to check.”

Me: “It’s okay. I understand.”

Security Guard: “You just look really young, and if I don’t check, I could get in trouble.”

Me: “That’s fine! It’s no big deal.”

Security Guard: “You just… look really young.”

My mom and stepdad love to joke about the time I got carded twice, but I’m more interested in knowing how young the guard thought I was!

I am visiting Las Vegas, where recreational marijuana is legal. My family and I have stopped at a souvenir store that also sells marijuana. I am asking one of the guys behind the counter about some of their products.

Worker: “Excuse me, ma’am, but you can’t have your drink in our store. We aren’t allowed to have alcohol here.”

Me: “Don’t worry; it’s virgin.”

Worker: “I don’t care if you’re a virgin or not. You can’t have that drink in our store.”

Me: “No, dude. I was talking about the drink. ‘Virgin’ means non-alcoholic. I’m nineteen; I can’t have alcohol for two more years.”

Worker: “You know the age for marijuana is twenty-one, right?”

Me: “D*** it!”

I left the store!

I’m a gas station clerk. A young man comes to the counter and puts down his things, including a high school library book clearly stamped with “[Local High School] Library.” In other words, this kid is probably underage.

He has a non-alcoholic beverage and, after I ring him up, he decides to try to sneak one past me.

Young Man: “Can I also get [tobacco product]?”

Me: “Can I see your ID?”

He pretends to search his wallet for his identification and, after a moment, mutters:

Young Man: “I must have left it in my other wallet.”

I nod.

Me: “It happens to me all the time.”

A group of teenagers is in the theatre to see the show. Three of them approach the bar; two order Cokes and one orders a beer.

Me: “Sure, could I just see your ID for the beer?”

Boy: “Oh, I’m eighteen.”

Me: “Okay, I will still need to see your ID before I can give you the beer.”

He pulls down the neck of his T-shirt.

Boy: “But I have chest hair!”