Forget that my naturally long lashes were painted twice over with Cover Girl 'Marathon' mascara in "very black".
Forget that I was wearing a cropped bomber and fitted -fitted verging on tight- straight-leg jeans, the combination of which unmistakably outlined my waist-to-hips contour.
Forget that the timbre of my voice is consistently described as somewhere between "sweet" and "girlish."
Forget that I had on my feet and dangling off my forearm a pair of patent leather four inchers and a black leather tote, respectively.
In truth, what stunned me most about my being addressed as a "sir" yesterday was not that the screener -a young man who, given his position as the first line of airport security presumably had no serious vision impairments- had in his possession a driver's license that not only informed him of my first name but also included a 2005 photo from when I was in the thick of my 'Nicole Richie long bob' phase and still thought I looked sufficiently unfeminine to warrant a male assignation, but rather my reaction to his mistake.
I honestly didn't care. My feelings weren't hurt. I had no desire to correct him.
In fact, my first reactions upon hearing these five words were to tilt my head ever so slightly, look this boyish twenty-something squarely in his blue eyes, smile, and say, "Thanks, I will."
Check back later today for the Volvo style epiphany that came to me as a result of my interaction with Derek the Dayton Airport security screener.
*to those who identified the 1985 movie from which the above film still was taken, you've earned my utmost respect