It was a shining moment. But going to the bars is merely an invitation for abuse. One night, the week after my glorious 21st, I needed four IDs to prove my legality. I was whipping out Sears charge cards and Red Cross swimming lesson certificates. And even then, the bouncer glared at me as if I was stealing his first-born, as if he was doing me a giant favor by letting me go in and buy his lousy beer.
Bouncers are truly instruments of humiliation.
And physiostatics are the travel agents for their ego trips. I thought standing in a line and being scrutinized ended with picking teams in elementary school. I figured once I was legal and could toss out the fake IDs, I could stop squirming and sweating under their flashlights and beady eyes. Alas, I was wrong. I know, you're probably saying this whole nasty physiostasis condition could be cured with a little mascara and a nice pair of hot pants.