You're Only As Old As You Feel. Thank You. Now I Feel Like Dirt.
On Sunday Ray and I went to my bank, so he could cash two personal checks on my account. We sat down at the only occupied customer service desk and explained to the woman there the reason for our visit. She was foreign and exotic, with a friendly smile and a hint of an accent. I would place her at somewhere between 35 and 60. She had one of those faces that didn't readily betray her age. My sister always referred to such people as "ageless". I told Ageless that I wanted to cash Ray's checks against my account, without ever explaining his relationship to me. She told us that wouldn't be a problem and asked for all our information and ID. She made a note on a slip of paper and told us to meet her up front at the teller stations. As Ray and I approached the young teller, Ageless handed him Ray's license and explained that all he needed was "Mrs. Cuervo's ID so she can cash two checks for her son." Ouch. Fuck. That took the wind out of my sails in a hurry.
Do I really look beat enough to have a 23 year-old son? True, Ray had no idea what I was referring to when I said how much more I liked Sarah Jessica Parker's old series Square Pegs than Sex and the City, and true, the first time I saw Nick Cave play he had a 28" waist, and not a combover, but fuckin' A, I thought I was slipping in under the wire here of looking 30-ish.
We devised a two-fold plan for the next time we go into that bank. First, as we sit at the woman's desk I will offhandedly spit on a paper napkin and dab some bit of schmutz off of Ray's cheek. Then as we stand to go over to the teller, I'm going to squeeze his ass and comment on how good it looks in his pants. I may be a hag, but at least I'm a hag with a sense of humor.