SENIOR DISCOUNT

  “You look like you might qualify for our senior discount, sir!”  “Brad” sings, waving me and my cart into his lane.

    Oh, really? Do I?

    Before I respond, Brad, let me clarify something. While I fully embrace my senior-ness, and consider age-related discounts an enlivening reward for having navigated the mine field called life,  you should  keep this in mind—  wording matters.

I prefer a question, a bit of doubt, even if there is none—“Do you qualify for our senior discount, sir?”, for example. Or, “If you’re 65 or older, you qualify for a discount.” Indulge me, Brad. Self-delusion and denial are primary senior survival modalities. Let me be the employed 45 year-old who still sky dives, not the irrelevant Boomer a few summers removed from being spoon-fed carrot puree.

  Furthermore, how, exactly could you tell that I might qualify for a senior discount? Did I arrive on a kneeling short bus, accessorized with MedicAlert bling and a “Morongo Bingo” bucket hat? Did I enter your store and snort, “Would it kill them to turn the heat up in here!?”, then fart my way to the Meatmucil display?  No, I didn’t.  And, in fact, there is no visible evidence of my oldness. I’m wearing a surgical mask, Cubs hat, and sunglasses my son assures me are “fresh”.  I purchased this quarer-zip sweater specifically to cover my catastrophic wattle. And, as you can see, I haven’t “let it all go”. I try to live “70 is the new 50”, even though my knees strenuously object. Am I  leaning on my cart like a walker? Does the cart contain painkillers, ointments and adult diapers? No and no.

  “And how could you tell I might qualify for a senior discount?” I snip, failing to stifle my inner curmudgeon.

  He stops scanning and looks up.

   “Straight up?” His half-smile unnerves me, like I’ve given him exstasy and invited him to reveal his truth.

   “Yeeh,” I croak. “Straight up.”

    “It’s not just that it’s 11am on Wednesday and you’re  grocery shopping. I noticed you were taking your time. Strolling the aisles. Smelling the produce. Taking off your glasses to read ingredients labels. Comparing prices. You’re at a simple task, finding the Zen in it, finding the joy in it. Most of the time, that’s happy senior behavior. It’s nice to see. It’s the way I want to be when I get older.”

    A desire to kiss Brad on the lips gives way to equally startling emotion. I dig for my wallet, covering welling tears  and a bit of shame. Is sentimentality as inevitable a part of aging as sagging flesh? Or  am I flashing on that gratitude thing everybody’s talking about?  Probably both.

   “Thanks, Brad,” I manage. “That means a lot. It makes me feel...younger.”

  “You bet. And exactly how young are you?”

    “I’m 67.”

    “That means you qualify for our senior discount.”

   “Great!”

    Then, as he goes back to scanning, “Oh, and  that long grey hair sticking out of your ear was also kind of a giveaway.”