Little did I know, I was about to experience one of those rare, life-defining moments.
A couple points to clarify:
1. This is the End carries an R rating
2. An R rating requires attendees be at least 17 years of age, or be in the pseudo-care of an assenting adult. (Duh.)
You can probably guess what happened next.
I. Got. Carded.
Not only did I get carded, but as the girl behind the counter scrutinized my ID, her face shifted into that whole, left-eyebrow-raise-slight-chin-wrinkle-mini-surprised-smirk thing, "I wasn’t expecting to see that age.”
Because she thought I was under 17. She thought I was in high school. She thought I was frolicking about in that blessed skin-glowing-hormone-raging-hands-holding-other-hands-at-football-games* stage of life.
I’m going to choose to revel in this moment for the next 17 years or so.
I got carded at the theater bar, too, just in case you were curious.
I really, really love Atlanta.
*Or so I hear.