This is something I've had problems with for about half a year now. It seems that, with my baby face and my height, I can't be taken as seriously in the real world as I would like. A few months ago, I went out to try and buy 'The Woman In Black' on DVD. This film is rated a 12. A TWELVE. AS IN, YOU HAVE TO BE TWELVE TO BUY IT. Fine, I unwittingly thought, no problem. I'm four years clear of any awkwardness.
I got IDd. Yes, your esteemed Wisdomer got ASKED FOR ID TO BUY A TWELVE. Seemingly, they didn't like it when, failing to produce the required item of formal identification, I claimed that I WAS in fact 16, quoted my birthday fast and accurately and stood, looking indignant. Nothing. I was embarrassed, and furious.
Another problem I have is the fact that when I get angry at someone, during school or something, I'm very rarely taken seriously. The benchmark for how angry I became, and the point where more (but not many more) people started taking me seriously was on the Ski Trip last year when I punched some guy in the face for touching my legs. The POINT is that it's difficult, apparently, to convey your anger when you stand a good three inches shorter than most of your year, thus most people you want to have an argument with.
This is now why I carry a form of ID with me (my bus pass card with my name, picture and date of birth- rock'n'roll lifestyles), all the time. Weirdly, when I go to the cinema, as I'm always with friends or my boyfriend, we don't get IDd for seeing 15s, but that's only probably because the guys my boyfriend and I hang out with are all at least five foot eight, lanky and well-turned out, looking every inch of their sixteen years, and the idea of a gang of of-age boys chaperoning a preteen girl is just too cringey for the cinema people to contemplate, most probably.
Annoyingly, this problem also extended to my work; over Christmas, I worked briefly in a shop (AND I GOT PAID FOR HAVING JOKES WITH THE CUSTOMERS OH MY GOD), and I was asked questions on the products by customers (naturally), but the thing IS, is that when I came out with my low, drawling, posh 'work voice', at least half of them look startled, with one or two going so far as to question my age, asking was I 'really old enough' to work there? The only thing that kept me biting back the retort of how I'd wonderfully managed to forge a birth certificate and a National Insurance number, thus duping the company, the taxman AND my parents, was the idea of my £6.50-an-hour wage; not too shabby for my first venture in to the world of paid work (more on this later).