Kimberly V.
Yelp
Yes, they let you buy hard alcohol. Yes, their selection is probably moderate, but in the midst of all the full bottles, the choices are staggering. Yes, the store is mostly clean and well-lit. No bitches getting stabbed in the parking lot, at least not from what I've seen.
But if you happen to be in line for your purchase and the counter-person takes and scans your ID and it happens to be your birthday, yes, the scanning device plays the birthday song. It plays it in a tinny, midi-style tone, no less. Bee bo bee bum bing bing.
And yes, the counter-person couldn't just wish a benevolent day of birth and be done with the transaction. Instead, he asks, "Oh, so it's your birthday?"
"Really?"
"Yeah, that thing plays that song when it's the person's birthday." Then he pauses, like we've just shared a magic moment because we both know my date of birth. And he adds, "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone how old you really are."
"I'm. Not. OLD. Die, liquor store worker!"
Maybe in my youth, I would have pitched a fit. You would have seen the broken bottle bits lodged in the most uncomfortable crevices of the former counter-person on the six o'clock news. But I like to believe I've traded my spitfire for strength in these mature years. I did not stab the bitch. Instead, I took my whiskey, gave a hint of a smile, and proceeded to prove that youth is merely a wetter perspective.