I used to be 22 and from California, with a 90210 zipcode to boot. Thanks to my friend, Jose, who “works” in MacArthur Park in downtown LA, I temporarily led a life most teens could only dream about.
Exclusive clubs on Hollywood Blvd were no longer just figments of my imagination. And it was all thanks to my little plastic piece of freedom. During my internship in Los Angeles this past summer, my fake ID became my passport to some of the best night life in the world; my constant companion guaranteeing me a good time.
Now let’s not get it twisted, at the ripe young age of nineteen I knew how to control myself. I was no Lindsay Lohan, stumbling out of the hottest clubs a hot mess. In my mind, I was simply using my new “identity” as a ticket to gain access… My ID was my in.
But nothing gold can stay, and through a series of highly unfortunate and ridiculous events I was thrown back to underage and uncool status not once, but twice… And let me say, being 19 again hurt.
The first time my ID was taken away, by a cop no less, my quest to gain back my over-21 status resembled that of an addict fiending for their next fix. I simply could not live until I was 22 again. No matter the cost, I’d pay it; no matter the danger, I’d go.
Being without a car, I’d literally beg anyone with a set of wheels to drive me to Central LA - becoming “that girl” to most of the people I interned and lived with who were mostly of age. But I couldn’t stop myself. I just couldn’t handle the idea of no longer being able to go out while everyone else was having “the best night ever!” This marked the beginning of my obsession with the fear of missing out, or as I lovingly call it: F.O.M.O.
It was like I had prematurely experienced what being 21 had to offer and I just could not go back to the way my weekends were before… What was behind the velvet rope simply could not be unseen.
…I was also in straight-up denial. To anyone who would listen I would preach my so-called maturity, wiseness beyond my years and the “unfairness” of the drinking age. It was all quite pathetic, really.
Finally summer drew to a close and I went back to school, where, let’s face it, no one needs a fake ID for a good time. I was back on track, I was with my people: my underage comrades facing a world that told us “you’re too young.”
And then SXSW happened. In the weeks prior to Austin’s weeklong festival I had made a wish-list of sorts, filled with my favorite DJs, bands and comedians coming to town. As the festival drew closer, each and every entertainer was scratched off the list due to the fact that they were all 21-plus events.
I was crushed. But more importantly that fiendish feeling was back. My absolute need to become of age was at it’s height when I watched a show from an alley outside a crappy bar. I vowed to never experience that pathetic feeling again. Jamming by the trash is just not cool.
What I learned from that week was to not come back to SXSW until I was 21, legitimately. Why put myself through that torture? At my age, I simply did not belong there. It was the equivalent of locking Amy Winehouse in a liquor store with no means of escape. It’s just not a good idea.
It’s been a slow process, but I’m learning to embrace my age. My real age. This is the prime of my life, or so I’ve heard. Nineteen is the perfect time to be young and stupid, no forged identity required.
Update: I have another fake and cannot be stopped. Oops.
hi, i was on tumblr looking for information about getting caught for a fake id (i just got arrested) and found this post, im curious how much trouble legally, you got into after getting yours taken away.
I actually just got a slap on the wrist by a lady cop. She found both my IDs when searching my friend’s car and thought I was a runaway because they both looked fake. I’m sorry to hear about your arrest! What went down?