Or maybe it was, "if you didn't eat so much of this stuff, running wouldn't be so bloody hard."
On the way home, I stopped at the grocery store to clean up the odds and ends that were on my shopping list. My cashier was an older Asian woman, probably Chinese. She scanned while I did the debit card drill and didn't pay much attention to the goings-on. Then she asked for ID.
I did a mental doubletake. I'd considered buying a bottle of wine, but decided against it, and I was almost certain there was no alcohol in my cart. "Really? Why?"
She held up a bottle of Nyquil. "You have to be 18 to buy this." Ummmmm, yeah. I'm going to be 45 in nine days. People tell me I don't look that old, but I can't remember the last time anyone questioned my legal status to drink, let alone consume an over-the-counter cold remedy.
I extended my drivers' license, and a wave of embarrassment crossed her face. "Umm, your hair. I guess... I thought..."
She neglected to ask me whether I needed help getting groceries to my car, which was probably a wise move on her part.