Possessing my finally valid ID, I walk up to the liquor store’s entrance.

“Are you ready, Adam?” my consciousness asks of me.

With a deep breath and giant step, I enter the world of being a legal alcoholic.

It isn’t long until my elation transforms into confusion as I try to navigate correctly through the store. What? I’m sorry; I’m not minoring in Liquor Store Architecture.

I begin to think of how I look to the employees and possible undercover excise cops with my frantic pacing and rapid eye movements. It’s hard to emit positive vibes when your only two options are ask an employee where the Svedka is at and have them suspect you have a fake ID, or continue to come off as a mother looking for her lost child in a department store.

You think they’d put the Svedka bottles in an easy-to-find location. And hey, if you’re judging my alcohol choice, sack up. My bad that I enjoy cost-efficient drunkenness. At least I’m not the guy who is obviously compensating for something.

After lots of exploring and google-ing, I finally find my Svedka beauty.

She really did look gorgeous. Her purple covering had me feeling some type of way.

After my quick half-chub moment, I sought after the cash register.

My heart began to beat fast. Ever since I could remember I had been waiting for this moment. Anticipating the time in life when I could finally purchase my first bottle of vodka and become that much closer to my dream of becoming a bus driver.

I confidently put the bottle down on the counter as I quickly improvise a joke to the cashier.

The only problem is that when I say something without thinking, it usually is correlates to what I had been thinking about recently.

“What if I had a fake ID? Ha ha.”

I finally knew how the CEO of BP Oil felt like after the gulf spill.

“This isn’t a fake, I promise,” I quickly blurt out as I frantically hand him my perfectly legal ID.

He looks at the ID. He looks at me. I smile and throw him thumbs up.

“What the hell, Adam?” my consciousness asks.

The cashier then begins what I like to call the BLAH routine.

Bend, Look under UV light, Ask questions, “Hmm” responses.

“What was the phase of the moon on your birthday?”

“Full?”

“Hmmm.”

“Which African country won it’s independence in the year you were born?”

“Chad?”

“Hmmm.”

“What does your address translate to in Spanish?”

“Me no hablo?”

“Hmmm.”

It doesn’t take long till the manager is signaled over.

Before I know it, I’m connected to a lie detector in a hastily lit, smoky interrogation room. I’m kidding, but it felt like it.

After a quick cavity check, I’m given the green light with the purchase.

“I remember freshman year,” the cashier snarls as he bags the Svedka bottle.

A new wave of adrenaline takes over as I walk out realizing that I just purchased alcohol. If this was a movie, this would be the ending scene where I pump my fist up in the air as it freeze frames.

I always wanted to grow up faster than I could. Something about the ability to do whatever you want, whenever you want seemed satisfying for a young suburban mind.

It isn’t till now that I’m of the age that I realize the beauty of childhood ignorance. If only my 6-year-old self knew how stressful purchasing alcohol and maintaining a healthy body weight actually is. I’m sure that’d send him right back to the drawing board, no pun intended.