I am of two minds about the not-all-that-hefty Senior Discount being offered at some places. On one level, I’d just as soon not be reminded of how many years have gone by; on the other, I could probably use the few extra cents for something.
I am over 55, after all, although only two measly years. Sandy’s only 56. Is it that obvious? Have all my anti-aging secrets, my skinny jeans, artfully highlighted hair, not managed to shave a couple of years off my appearance? Yes and no.
I reminded myself that the cashier was about 19 years old, and anyone who was older than his parents had to be over 55. He’s also been taught to offer the discount to anyone he thinks may qualify. And I do! I do! I don’t lie about my age. I lie (to myself) about being my age, and looking my age.
In some circles, I have begun admitting to sixty already, though the motivation is simply to blur the actual date of my birth; I decline to celebrate my birthday on general principle, and I’d just as soon those people didn’t mention it.