When we got in line, I accidentally took my Jewel card and ran it thru the debit/credit scanner. The cashier, an Indian woman in her mid-50s named Bhavana, looked at me like I had three heads. I apologized. Husband, attempting to help navigate the technology that had clearly already gotten the best of me, got out his debit card and said, "I'll do this."
Bhavana stopped. She let out a sigh to show she was annoyed. Then she looked at both of us and angrily said, "which one of you is buying the alcohol?".
"Me. It's me. I'll do it," I said.
Husband quickly - and with some shame - stashed his debit card back in his wallet.
Bhavana did not like us.
Within seconds, she asked for my ID. Because I knew she hated me, I was all thumbs and managed to pull out three YMCA I.D.s (I carry my kids Y IDs in my wallet) and my Voter's Registration Card before I could get the driver's license out.
Once I handed her the card, I thought maybe she was having a hard time finding the year I was born, because she was looking at it for what seemed like a long time. But she kept looking.
And still looking some more.
For a second, I thought she was trying to commit something to memory - possibly my address - so she could leave a steamin' pile of poo on my doorstep for inconveniencing her so much with this 5 item order.
Bhavana looked up from her meditative trance with my ID and said, "Please remove your glasses."
I lifted my sunglasses up above my nose as she glanced at me and then back to the ID. "I'm 40," I said with a laugh.
Bhavana stopped, looked me straight in my once again sunglass-covered eyes and coldly said, "This is my responsibility, ma'am."
Bhavana wasn't fucking around.
To join anyone in laughter would be my death.
I managed to get out of the store, champagne in hand, unscathed. But I'll be honest, it wouldn't have surprised me if Jewel had authorized Bhavana to perform cavity searches on problematic, trouble-making customers like myself.
And if she would have snapped a latex glove on her hand and told me to bend over, we would have had a serious problem on our hands: I really wanted a mimosa.