Two bad things happened last week.

First, I was picking up my daughter at elementary school. I pulled to the curb where she stood waiting, next to another child. She climbed in the car, waved goodbye to her friend, then told me, “She wants to know if you’re my grandma.”

Another day, I was in the supermarket checkout line, buying wine among other things, and a cashier carded me.

This is confusing. Am I a grandmother? Or an underage drinker? I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure it’s impossible for one person to be both.

Sorry to say, that was not the first time someone mistook me for my daughter’s grandma. And several times recently, while buying alcohol, I’ve been asked for my ID.

The world can’t decide whether I’m geriatric or juvenile. What a pendulum ride!

OK, I admit: I got into this parenthood gig late in life. I’m old enough to be mother to most of the moms in my kid’s class. And letting my hair go gray didn’t help.

But now, to add insult to injury, I still have to prove my age to buy a bottle of Sutter Home?

I know that stores are cracking down on underage drinkers, and that’s great — especially in the college town where I live. I just wish they’d trust me when I’m standing there, looking not a day under 50 (especially if I didn’t get enough sleep the night before).

The grocery cashier last week was taking no chances.

“Ma’am, what is your birth date?” she asked.

I looked at her. Several smart-aleck answers popped into mind. But I resisted. The poor thing was just doing her job.

“Twelve-eight-fifty six,” I said.

Surely she’s going to laugh, I thought. She’ll do the math — 2008 minus 1956 — and she’ll realize the absurdity of this. I laughed, myself, to acknowledge our little joke.

She didn’t even look up. Too busy punching the numbers into her cash register.

Funny thing about getting carded: It’s a love-hate relationship.

When you’re 21 (and newly legal), you hate being asked to show ID. It’s embarrassing. As you slide your driver’s license out of your wallet, you’re thinking, Don’t I look old enough?

When you’re 30, you rather like being carded. Yeah, you think smugly, I can still pass for twenty-something. I’m looking gooood.

At age 35, you’re even more pleased to be carded.

Although now there’s a new danger: If the cashier giggles when she sees your birth date, the whole episode becomes embarrassing. Just like when you were 21.

Somewhere around 40 (assuming you’re still getting carded now and then), you start to dislike it intensely. It’s ridiculous. You’ve got your pre-teen son standing there beside your shopping cart, you’re late for his orthodontist appointment and the cashier wants to know how old you are. Old enough to know better, you’re thinking.

Which brings me back to my other embarrassment — being mistaken for Granny. That’s no fun, either.

I need a glass of wine. If I can get away with buying it.

To reach Jeanne Malmgren, e-mail her at malmgrenjeanne@yahoo.com.