Minor Issues

Libby Moore

It started when I wanted to label my class binders at the beginning of the semester. During a routine trip to Wal-Mart, I tossed a single Sharpie into my cart. As I looked over the latest tabloids during my turn at the checkout line, my thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected interjection from the cashier.
“May I see your I.D., please?”

I fumbled around in my purse and finally retrieved my wallet. After glancing at my driver’s license, the cashier shook her head and removed the Sharpie from my collection of purchases. “I’m sorry,” she said “but you’re under eighteen. I can’t sell you this.” This was absurd. “Excuse me,” I said “but it’s one Sharpie. I just want to write my classes on my binders.”

My plea did me no good, and I left Wal-Mart as the loser in a custody battle over permanent ink.

When I graduated from high school a year early I expected that there would be a few issues with my age during my first semester of college. With my 18th birthday at the end of December, I figured I could easily suffer through a few months of the occasional parental consent form. I did not realize that many of the household items Mom always kept in stock would be so difficult to procure.

I put off washing my bath towels until they smelled of mildew. As a lifelong advocate of disinfectants, I figured a little bleach in the washer would make my towels once again usable.

Wrong again. Apparently someone figured out that a little bleach with Tylenol goes a long way. So now I must suffer the consequences of mildew-permeated towels until Christmas. And this “no bleach” rule applies to ALL cleaners containing bleach. Thank goodness my roommate is 18 and can purchase these products, or I would be constantly skeptical of the cleanliness of our apartment.

I found that the list of off-limits items continued when I tried to buy a box of Sudafed at Walgreen’s. It would seem I am only allowed Benadryl. My sinuses have been clogged for two weeks.

The other morning I was feeling bored of my usual coffee so I decided to go to the gas station and pick up an energy drink. I have never liked any sort of carbonated beverage; so uncarbonated Redline was always my choice.

In the town where I’m from it was rumored you had to be 18 to buy Redline, but the Valero gas station by my high school never carded me. I guess Tyler is just more efficient at enforcing such rules. I drank my coffee with disdain.

While all of my friends back home in high school have visions of tattoos, body piercing, and cigarettes for their 18th birthdays, I’ll be happy just to know I can use a permanent marker on my personal belongings. I suppose it makes sense to prevent those few stupid individuals from causing trouble, but like anything else it’s always the good people who end up suffering.

At least in two months I’ll suddenly wake up with enough sense not to sniff a Sharpie.