I have to visit the DMV today to get a replacement license. Or, are they calling it the DDS these days? Eh, who gives a f*ck. But, anyway, it got me thinking about IDs and all the joy they’ve brought me and trouble they’ve gotten me into over the years. So, I’m starting a lil’ something called the Fake ID Chronicles. I have more fake ID stories than most, hence, the need for a series. Let’s do this.
I got my first fake ID when I was 15. My cousin Lindsay and I were heading down to Miami for a summer vacation to visit my aunt, uncle and cousin Scott, who’s 3 years my senior, and we decided that we needed IDs saying we were 18 to attempt to get into some classy 18-to-party establishments. But, when we got to the guy’s house who was making them for us…I got greedy.
I wanted to be 21.
When my slightly blurry, yet somewhat believable 21-year-old New Jersey ID popped out of the dude’s printer, I felt like I was holding a winning lottery ticket in my hand. Lindsay’s came out looking like her face had been digitally scrambled and our ID dealer explained that some turned out better than others. That truly solifidied my feelings of luck. What if MINE had been the shitty one?! I couldn’t even imagine.
Once we showed cousin Scott our IDs, he laughed in our faces and just took us to house parties all week. But, don’t feel bad; partying with hot 18-year-old dudes was perfectly suitable for us, regardless of location.
When school started up again, I was a 16-year-old junior and the “girl with the fake.” People started catching wind of it and the senior soccer guys we hung with were the first to “make the ask.” They knew of the smallest, shittiest liquor store in the smallest, shittiest town right next to ours and convinced me I’d “be fine.” I breezed in confidently, picked up some Popov vodka, cheap beer and wine and walked out with my purchases, feeling like the most badass girl in the world. And, I was.
We boozed it up that night, probably cruised around in the Texaco parking lot, got late-night WaWa hoagies and went home. I woke up the next morning, still reeling from my new badassness and came down to the kitchen where my parents were waiting for me with concerned faces.
“What’s up, guys?” I asked.
My dad spoke first. “Ashley, we know you have a fake ID.”
My heart stopped. This wasn’t happening. I would do anything to protect my new identity. I would lie. I would cry. I would say I had a change of heart and threw it out. I would run away. There was no way they were getting their hands on my winning lottery ticket.
He continued. “And, all I’m going to say is that if we ever find bottles of Boone’s Farm in the trash again, you’re going to be in trouble. You know better than that.”
And, he walked out.
I was stunned. But, lesson learned. No more Wild Berry wine for this girl. Looks like it would be vodka and Mike’s Hard Lemonade from here on out.
That…was a close one.
Like what you read? Just a little? You can subscribe to this blog by using the button at the top of the page. Don’t make me beg.