I tried to have fun this past weekend because I knew I’d have to work on my 35th birthday, which was yesterday.  Still, my department took me out to Chevys for lunch.  I had a mojito wholesome, work-approved glass of lemonade and some shrimp tacos and eventually found myself with a free sombrero and a dessert.  I wasn’t upset about turning 35. Everything was going just fine.

Until I looked at the waiter.

He had a pin that read: “WE ASK TO SEE I.D. UNDER 35”

And I thought, how nice.  Here I thought the last significant age milestone was 25, when it becomes cheaper to rent a car.  I had no idea I had yet another fun-filled benchmark in front of me: the amazing ability to walk into any Chevys and order a drink without the inconvenience of having to take out my wallet and show my driver’s license.  Because, God knows, I’m sick of doing that.  If I had to show my license and prove that I’m of drinking age any more than I do already, I’d probably pull a muscle or get a repetitive stress injury. My birthday was already going great: Chevy’s thoughtful, considerate policy with its thoughtful, considerate slogan, with all it implied about the age I had just reached, made it perfect. Thank you, Chevys!  I am in your debt!

So you won’t mind if I just cram your free sombrero up your guacamole spout and burn down every one of your seedy, cockroach-infested franchises from here to San Diego.

Thought not.