Let's take a quick trip in the wayback machine, shall we? Eight-year old Troy hated to be ignored when he would walk up to the counter of the snack bar while his parents were partaking in their weekly bowling league. The sense from the employees behind the counter was that this little kid couldn't possibly have any desire to purchase something from them, he was most likely going to pester them with childish inquiries like needing to use the bathroom or claiming that one of the pinball machines stole his quarters (which happened frequently, but that's beside the point).

Fast-forward to an almost thirty Troy.

I still look young, but enjoy reaping the benefits of being an adult... purchasing alcohol being the primary area where I have the most difficulty.

I'll stand at bars, waiting sometimes twenty minutes for service. Even the old trick of making the money that you intend to spend visible doesn't seem to work sometimes. It's okay. It's understandable. Bartenders, for the most part, love to ignore people. So that one I can let slide off my back. But the one that bothers me quite a bit are the owners of stores... from BevMo to Costco to the liquor store down the corner, I get the stink eye no matter which establishment I enter.

This past Christmas, I was up in the mountains with my family. In preparation for New Years, we decided to head into Costco's separate liquor store (unlike California, Costco - where the prices are low - doesn't lay mountains and mountains of booze out in the open... it's behind steel-enforced cages, guarded by armed mercenaries, and atop pressure sensitive alarm plates...). Immediately as I enter the store, there's an employee on my tail - shadowing my every move. Those that know me best know that I'm in no way intimidating and probably never suspect of theft, so we know they're already concerned that I'm underage.

I peruse the merchandise; eventually deciding on a case of Paulaner Salvator (my Opa would be quite proud)... literally the minute I pick up the case, the employee asks if I'm 21. With an understanding smile that says, "I get this all the time", I inform her yes. She nods and goes back to looking busy, thinking she's being stealthy but I really can see her still recording my every move. Wow, way to make your potential customer comfortable and reassured that you value their business... but whatever, I can ignore it and so I continue to do.

I meet up with my Mom and Aunt as they hold their purchases and as we're standing in the middle of the store, another employee walks up and interrupts us. "He's 21, right?" Yes, I say. Yes, my Mom says. Employee number two scrunches his brow as if I've ruined his day by being 21 and walks away without saying anything else. I'm feeling so loved here, I should frequent this place more often.

The whole family hops in line to pay, and I stand behind my Aunt and my Mom as they put their wine on the counter for the cashier (my best buddy employee number two with the wrinkled forehead)... immediately and rudely, Employee Number Two says to my aunt, "I'm not going to let you buy that until I see his ID." Pointing at me, now like I had just let my dog defecate in his prized tulips.

By this point, I'm beyond being patient and understanding and am starting to take offense. I'm rethinking giving this guy my money at all, so I sarcastically hit him with, "You know what, I would love to show you my ID, sir", and scramble to dig into my wallet and lay it on the counter like I had just gotten four of a kind at the World Series of Poker. I'm hoping the unspoken tone of, "Wow, you're being a douchebag to a paying customer" was conveyed, and he seemed to soften after seeing proof in plastic.

But the sting was still there.

Anyway, point of this long-winded story is that just because of the way I look, I'm being discriminated upon by an employee that should, if they're good at what they do, be trying to encourage me to spend more money at their establishment during this time of recession.  I obviously understand the paranoia that I'm a minor and you don't want to sell to me and lose your license but c'mon, rub a little customer service in there so that when you find out I'm a millionaire and want to buy out your entire stock of Dom in celebration of the forthcoming New Year, you don't feel like a putz for being a jerk to me.

Take your, "I need to see his ID, we don't serve your kind" bartender at the Star Wars cantina act, and shift it into a, "Hey, you know you look young, any chance I can see your ID?" I would even settle for a simple "Can I see your ID?" because telling me that you don't trust me is easier to stomach in the form of a question as opposed to an aggressive command that makes me want to punchasize you in the face for free...

I'm here. I want to spend money at your place. Treat me like a customer, not a kid in junior high school that's going to steal chewing gum from you.