can I see some ID, please?

I was wading through the utility drawer in my kitchen the other day (so-named because it's full of utile things, like my crack torch, mailing tape (three rolls), wine IDs, vacuum belts, paper clips, ribbon, balloons, a hammer, jewelry cleaner and a Crystal Light container from when I lived with Christina in 1996, among other useful things) and I came across a photo insert that used to be in my wallet, when I had one of those Mom-sized wallets. You know, like the one your mom carries.

This one wasn't full of pictures, though, it was full of outdated IDs.

The first is my student ID from 1998, when I went to Ireland with my college boyfriend as a graduation present. (While it was a great present, it wasn't a great trip: just weeks before we were set to graduate together, my college boyfriend cheated on me with a woman he was in a show with. I was heartbroken and completely devastated, but didn't have the strength of character to imagine going through the end of college all alone. So I forgave him. And we went to Ireland together. And then we moved in together in NYC. And then I moved out. And then, a year or so later, he married the woman he cheated on me with in college. But I didn't know about any of this at the time this ID was created. Or maybe I did. Hard to recall. Looking at the picture, I think I might have known.)

(yes, it's almost my birthday again.)

After that, the 1996 student ID from when I lived in London for a semester. I was studying Shakespeare at the British American Dramatic Academy (aren't I smart?) and having a great time. I met my best friend of many years there -- we were roommates and completely inseparable. Until a few years ago, that is. We had to break up. It's weird when you think of breaking up with your friends. Men, sure, they come and go. But you expect the women in your lives to stick around. Our relationship was pretty toxic, though, and I had to let it go. I didn't know any of this at the time, either. We hadn't even met yet:
And, digging even deeper, my high school ID. (the "permission" sticker meant that I had permission to go off campus over lunch if I wanted to.) No stories of great desperation here. Just bangs. Lots and lots of bangs. (Forgive me, I was 16 at the time)
And last, but not least, my fake ID from college, which was my sister's actual expired license, which in those days was still legitimate ID. I never really had to use it. Once I grew my bangs out, nobody really asked me for ID. And I didn't really enjoy going to the bars that did. But my sister used to talk about us going out together when we were on vacation with my parents, and I'd say, "We can't, Polly, we're both you!"