Several years ago, I went to a bar with a group of people. This may have even been before I had children. The waitress asked me for my ID, and I pulled it out and gave it to her. Later, I realized I didn’t have my ID, and I asked her to return it to me. She said she already did. I didn’t believe her.
I was indignant. How could she take my license? I was sure it had been thrown out.
I went to the Secretary of State and applied for a new license. I told everyone about the stupid waitress. When my new license arrived, I went to put it away and found my old license. The window spot where I normally keep it had a cloth, and instead of sliding in front of the cloth like it should have, it had slid behind the cloth. I never knew there was a cloth.
I had been wrong. The waitress wasn’t stupid. It turns out I was. I never did call and apologize. By the time I realized it, several weeks had gone by.
I had been so sure she had taken my license and did something with it. I could see no other explanation. I remember looking around the edges of the booth and questioning her and not really believing her answers. I probably was a pain in the butt as I complained. (At least I wasn’t a drunk pain in the butt. We were there for dinner, and I had to show ID in order to get a drink with my dinner.)
And I had been wrong.
I should have apologized.
Isn’t it amazing the things that keep you up at night?
Argh.
