August 14, 2008

Places I've Been Carded in San Diego

It's sort of a running joke that I look like I'm twelve. I suppose it's because, at nearly 28 years-old, I have no (obvious) wrinkles, I smile easily, and I have a "sweet," "soft" voice. (I don't always appreciate these adjectives.) Since when does friendly equal youth? Especially considering the amount of complaining I hear about "today's youth". Here are just a few of the places I've been carded during my stint in lovely San Diego:

The Ralph's grocery store in Mission Valley
Legal age to purchase alcohol: 21.
Question from cashier to me: Looks like you have wine here. Who will be making the purchase today?
Answer: My grandmother.

AMC Movie Theaters in Fashion Valley
Legal age to view an R-rated movie accompanied by an adult: 17.
Cashier to my grandmother: I'm sorry but she really needs to be 17 to see this film.
My grandmother to cashier: Add ten years and you have her age.

The Point Loma Public Library
Legal age to obtain your own card without a parent's signature: 18.
Question from librarian to me: Did you bring your mom with you, hun? She'll need to sign your application.


Based on the reactions I've received whenever I reveal my real age, I'm beginning to worry that my driver's license will be confiscated by an over zealous librarian who is convinced that I couldn't possibly be closing in on 30 and that I must have stolen some nice old lady's wallet to obtain a fake ID. Not cool!

The one place I wasn't carded: The San Diego County Registrar of Voters. Apparently, they compare your signature in their database. What a relief!

What I Learned At the Bowling Alley Tonight

Some of you know that I was a dork growing up. Sure, I had friends, but I also watched Star Trek (both the original series and The Next Generation) and even attended an actual convention with my family in tow. The best part was when they showed us how the transporters worked. Cue ooh's and aaah's. My other claim to dorkiness? The bowling league in which I participated for about two years from the age of ten on the naval base on Coronado Island. No, we didn't have those silly short-sleeved polyester shirts. And I never got a crazy nickname. At my strongest I bowled an 85 and used a six-pound ball. If I broke a hundred that was amazing! I never used the granny throw, even though it seemed like an effective strategy because you got to use both hands.

Looking back on it, I think it's pretty silly that I was playing an indoor sport at the peak of my childhood in sunny Southern California. I rectified this as a high-schooler by taking up tennis and developing more tan lines than I care to remember. Despite the lack of tanning opportunities, bowling taught me excellent hand-eye coordination and perseverance by repeatedly showing me that no matter how hard you try sometimes the ball just isn't going to go your way.

To my surprise I still carry these lessons. My arm is straight and true, and my ball placement is fantastic. About a year ago, I bowled a 180 with an 8 pound ball, shaming my date, who seemed to think he was supposed to win because he was male and had paid for my shoe rental and the beers that should have made me throw poorly. No way, Jose. I've got skills.

Tonight was a slightly different story, under slightly different circumstances. I went bowling with my Uncle Val, who is crazy good (he got five strikes!) but not crazy competitive. He's encouraging and helpful, yet still let's me do my own thing. What I was surprised by was that I threw the 8 pound ball like it was nothing. My ball wasn't straight and true-it skewed right. That wasn't cool. So I upgraded to the 10 pound ball. Same thing. My score was in the toilet; I needed to adjust my form, but how? Could I, little Anjuli, The Little One, as my Aunt Lisa calls me, actually throw a 12 pound ball with control and grace? As it turns out, I could. I'm buff. Who knew?

Did my score vastly improve? Yes. OK, fine, it improved for one game and then my arm got tired and I was throwing all over the place. But the point is: I was much more powerful than I thought. Maybe all of that carrying of my own trash in and out of my site in Morocco actually worked out my arms. Or maybe it was wringing the water out of my hand-washed clothes?

What I've been thinking about since we returned from the bowling alley and finished our amazing In-and-Out burgers, is about how much I've changed. There are the more obvious psychological changes I've undergone - the stress, the regret, the pride, the excitement, the wonder - but there are also the physical ways in which my experiences have manifested themselves. Not only am I mentally stronger, but also, it turns out that I can lift heavier objects and run greater distances. I keep expecting to return to who I was a year ago because that's who I think I am. But actually, I'm a physically and mentally stronger, longer-haired, one-year older, some might even say better, version of who I was when I left. I didn't necessarily have to travel to Morocco to achieve all of that, but I tend to take the most dramatic approach to life. What direction I'll take next is still up in the air, but it's reassuring to know that I have this new strength to draw upon as I make yet another transition.