I had my first reality check recently. This occurred post signing up for a gym membership at the new YMCA. Relatively trashy, I know.

The slightly-overweight gym worker finished filing my new membership papers and said, “Okay, I just need to make a copy of your college id.”

Sidenote: Why are people who work behind the desk at gyms often overweight? This happens more than it should. I wonder if they actually know what lay beyond their plastic and fake wood encased workspace.

Anyway.

I replied, “Uh, sure.”

I fumbled through my bag, already knowing that the date of my personal Doomsday was printed in clear visibiliity on the front of my trusty Stagcard. I located the worn, red piece of plastic bearing an unusually attractive picture of myself pre-freshmen year wear and tear on it. It still read Expiration: May 17, 2009. That was the date of my graduation. Gross.

I handed the card over to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t notice the beads of sweat forming on my brow. My stomach lurched. You would think I had just forged my taxes.

She returned from the copy room and handed the card back to me without a word. Our eyes met. Her glance seemed to say “I know how hard it is.” She opened her lips to speak. I looked down at my bag, awkwardly fumbling with the zipper on my Kate Spade wallet.

“That will be 45 dollars, at the student rate, of course.”

Sweet success! She had awarded me that reduced price college membership, all so I could sweat it out on a weekly basis with protein-packing bros and scrawny middle aged women.

Things were simpler when I was actually a student.