The first time a cashier gave me a senior discount, I gave it back. I’m not eligible.
The second time – different cashier, same week – it felt like a nearer-death experience. I tried to give it back, but the cashier refused. I went home with my chicken salad and pondered how much future there might be left.
So much for the anti-wrinkle serum, the freshened-up red hair and the fashionably hot neon-coral sweatshirt. They made me feel good, but would they give me the aura of youth only among people who’ve actually earned the senior discount?
I scurried for the mirror. Was I too fat? Too thin? Did I smile too little? Too much? Did I overdo the whitening toothpaste so that my teeth looked fake? Did I inadvertently drop a cultural reference to following OJ’s slow-speed chase on TV as it unfolded? Was it because of the empty space in my handbag where a smartphone ought to be?
The first time it happens, it’s shocking – like getting your first AARP solicitation at age 45 when it’s not a birthday joke. Then the mailbox starts sprouting More
California WildWoman 