I’ve been receiving mailers from AARP for more than 20 years now. In my 30s, I admit I was taken aback and ready to call and complain, but then I decided it must be a system error on their end, so I just threw them in the recycling bin. I thought maybe one of my smart-aleck friends added me to a list as a joke.
Once I’d moved, the mailers finally ceased, and I’d forgotten about the oft-offended feeling of seeing those in my mailbox. I will turn 60 in December, and honestly, I didn’t think that was a huge deal. I told my friends and family that I am doing my best to enjoy the final year of my 50s and face 60 head-on. After all, I still feel young at heart, and thanks to the wonderful skincare products my friends brought me from Korea, I feel like I don’t look older than 50.
My husband is a good sport and is a few years older. He does give me the “side-eye” when we go to the movies, and I say, “one adult and one senior,” while trying to suppress a giggle, since their senior discount requires one to be over 60. The first time I did it, I thought he was going to ask me not to do that in the future, but he is, by nature (and nurture), a frugal person, and decided it’s worth 4 bucks. We also decided that the 16-year-old at the ticket counter most likely considers anyone over 40 an old person.
Then it happened: a senior moment. I’m not talking about the run-of-the-mill daily quest to locate my phone, my keys, my glasses, or walking into the kitchen and not remembering what I went there for, or having no idea who the musical guests are on Saturday Night Live. I am talking about a public encounter with a stranger who innocently called out the fact that I am now considered by some a “senior citizen.”
It happened at an unexpected place: A charity thrift shop. There I was, doing my usual perusing, hunting for treasures that someone else discarded. I found a couple of items and took them to the cashier. She was probably around my age, if I had to guess. She announced that today was “Veterans, Military and Seniors Day,” which, she added, meant a 10% discount. She said, “I don’t know if any of those apply to you.” I looked around to see if any other customers in earshot might be gasping as they saw and heard this exchange. Nope. Nobody but me and a young woman sorting through new donations who could have cared less. Then I resisted the urge to say, “Well, no, but that’s good to know!” Instead, I said, “That depends. What do you consider a senior?” When she said “Fifty-five,” I just laughed and said, “Lucky me!”
I was chuckling as I grabbed my purchase and headed out to my car. Looking at myself in the rearview mirror, wondering what gave it away. The “eleven” in the center of my forehead? My fine lines and wrinkles? It got me thinking about a story I’d read in the newspaper a few days prior, which described a car accident in which an “elderly woman” had been hit in the crosswalk. I pictured the victim in my head as the old woman who owned Tweety Bird in the cartoon, walking with a cane and being mowed down by a young person going too fast in his modified Honda. At the end of the article, it was noted that the woman was 55! I was appalled that the reporter dared to consider her “elderly.”
I was going to head to McDonald’s and order a coffee to see if they offered me the senior coffee special just so I could say, “Why no, I am not old enough to qualify for that discount!” But I felt a hot flash coming on, so I decided to head home. I grabbed the mail and walked into my house, still sorting through the afternoon’s events in my head. I set the mail on the counter, and there it was. A packet from my friends at the AARP. The personalized note on the outside announces, “Dana, Welcome to the 50s Club.” And just like that, I am 50 again. Thanks, AARP, for turning the clock back. While I appreciate the gesture, after Googling all the senior discounts in my area, I’ve decided to embrace 60.
Columnist Dana Matthews may be reached at ar***@*****st.net.
