The other evening, after one of my old-ladyish treadmill workouts at the Boston Sports Club, I went over to the Eastside Marketplace next door to buy a rotisserie chicken and a couple of tomatoes. I was still glowing with perspiration from my quasi-workout, and I thought I looked terribly buff and macho.
Imagine my surprise when the checkout girl gave me the senior discount without even asking me for my ID!
This was one of those landmark occasions. Remember the first time you didn’t get carded in a bar? Remember your 21st birthday, or your 30th, or your 40th? This was kind of like that, but slightly more funereal.
Evidently I look old. I employ a lot of college students, and I have come to accept that I am usually older than their parents. (I have also come to accept that I have been working at the university longer than my student employees have been alive. I get a kind of perverse kick out of it, and I think so do they.)
But “senior discount.” Just think about that.
And the cashier didn’t even ask me
To be fair: it was Tuesday, which is “senior discount night” at Eastside Marketplace. The old trout behind me in line had to be at least a hundred and fifty years old. The checker (who looked maybe twenty) made the simple assumption that we were both there to take advantage of the “senior discount.”
And who doesn’t love a discount?
So, on the upside: I saved fifty cents on my rotisserie chicken and hothouse tomatoes.
On the other hand: people look at me and think “He’s old.”
Oh dear dear dear.
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