Warning: This story is rated PG-13 for language, gratuitous use of permanent marker and Hugh Grant.

My 17th birthday four days past, I jauntily stroll into United Artists Bethesda one blustery night. I strut casually past the pitiful groups of juvenile peons who deviously plot to subvert the rating system, secure in the knowledge that I alone may now legally partake in that ultimate guilty pleasure: the R-rated movie.

I approach the ticket counter, bestow a winning smile on the ticket seller (hereafter to be addressed as the Minion of Darkness) and say, “One for Love Actually, please."

“May I see some ID?" replies the Minion of Darkness.

May I see some ID!? No, you may not see some ID, I mentally scream. Oh the indignity! “I refuse to tolerate your baseless questioning of my legitimacy," I reply aloud. Silence. “I find your ageist attitude unwarranted." No response. “Besides, I left my ID in my other pants."

But Minions of Darkness take no pity, and I am left rejected, abandoned and Hugh Grant-less. Nevermind that five minutes later I snuck into Love Actually by buying a ticket for the PG-13 flick Intolerable Cruelty; it’s the principle here. And that principle is my God-given right as a 17-year-old American to partake in whatever cinematic filth I darn well choose.

The irony thickens when you consider that one week earlier, as an aimless 16-year-old, my eyes unopened to life’s harsh realities, I successfully purchased a ticket to Kill Bill, Quentin Tarantino’s two-hour tribute to severed limbs and Uma Thurman. What drunken Powers That Be decided that, though I was not yet old enough to see Hugh Grant prance around, watching Uma Thurman systematically dismember the entire Japanese Mafia was okay? Kill Bill is probably permanently scarring; the only thing traumatic about Love Actually is Hugh’s dancing.

Though I apparently look younger at age 17 then at 16, I have tasted forbidden fruit and refuse to live a restricted life. I, too, wish to ogle Uma, connect with Keanu and heckle Hugh. Since I can’t be bothered to remember my license, I need to work on my tactics for eluding Minions of Darkness at area cineplexes.

Dressed in black, I hum the theme song to Mission: Impossible as I approach the theater, planning to throw a popcorn bomb at the ticket-taker and, in his moment of distraction, roll under the velvet rope and be on my way to R-rated rapture. Of course, I do want to be let back into this theater in the future, so at the last moment I veer off and slink through the bushes back to my car, speeding away in tune to the dramatic chorus.

Hoping to find a way to my movie that won’t get me banned from the movieplex, I consult my good friend and practicing juvenile delinquent, senior Nick Howard. Nick has, by his own admission, snuck into approximately a zillion R-rated movies. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: So, Nick, what’s your method for getting into R-rated films? Coordinated sabotage? Seducing ticket sellers?
Nick: Well, I just don’t get caught.
Me: I hope you die a painful death.
What does Nick have that I don’t? I wonder. The answer is obvious: facial hair. No ticket seller can refuse a man with facial hair.

Any normal girl would have been discouraged by this knowledge, but I turn to a friend who assures me that I would have more success sneaking into movies with a moustache. But why stop there? I want a beard. I want sideburns. I want Jerry Garcia.

Forty-five minutes and disgusting amounts of badly-applied permanent marker later, I’m thinking that maybe normal girls have the right idea. The only way theater employees will think I’m a 40-year-old man is if they eat a pint of fermented Raisinets first.

Dejected, I seek out my movie listings, searching for a tame film of the PG variety. And then, I hit gold: The Cat in the Hat. An acid trip in the guise of a Dr. Seuss film. Maybe they’ll give me a 12-and-under discount. But first, I’ll have to shave.