I have always thrilled at the idea of a senior discount. Never mind that you’re basically getting back the money you spent on tax. It’s something.
When someone questions if I’m old enough to merit the discount, it’s even better.
Ten percent here, a free drink there and before you know it, you’re openly asking for discounts on everything and shopping on days when they all but park a scooter at the front door to help you around.
Consider them the spoils of being wiser, but not being regarded as old. It’s one thing to be respected like Yoda. It’s quite another to look like him.
Recently, I had a not-that-much-younger man tell me it made him smile to know that I was still around. Was that a compliment? Or a confession that he didn’t think I’d make it to qualify for AARP?
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To be honest, age didn’t bother me until I turned 50 and my mother said, “God, you’re old.” Until then, I always felt the ceiling wasn’t that close. Now, I can practically feel the fan.
I know I don’t have the physical strength (ha!) I used to, but I’m more efficient. If I’m going in the kitchen to, say, get a snack, I’ll also grab a drink so I don’t have to make two trips. Smart, right?
Also, I keep pens near my big chair – in case I need to do puzzles – and always have an egg timer at the ready, just in case I need to take a quick 10-minute nap.
Age hits in mysterious places. As long as you don’t look in the mirror or mind that you don’t fit those clothes you wore 10 years earlier, you’re still a kid. It strikes your knees – particularly when you bend down and try to get back up. It hits home when you’re in the shower and you’re convinced you should have installed grab bars.
It also rears up at night when you get up two or three times just to go to the bathroom.
And, it’s there at the door when you forget where it was you were headed.
Doctors get a little snarky about the ravages of time and they’re constantly trying to tell you to cut back on the very things that keep you going.
When my grandmother was told she should watch her sugar intake, she grabbed a watermelon pickle and said, “If I die, at least I’ll die happy.”
I thought she had the right attitude. It’s coming. It’s just how we approach it.
Too often, seniors get a bad rap because they’re cranky and demanding. Children are, too. Who says one gets the right and the other doesn’t?
I believe we should approach those not-so-golden years as if we were millennials with decent bank accounts. I want it. I get it. Simple.
When my parents passed their 50th wedding anniversary and started considered downsizing, they had the perfect take on life. Appreciate the advantages of aging; ignore the ravages.
They golfed and gambled, went on short trips and ate out three times a week. They got dressed up for no good reason and did all the things that made them happy. They stayed abreast of current events and talked with teenagers about the latest music.
When they retired, they didn’t unplug, they stayed plugged in.
That’s how it should be. We shouldn’t withdraw from life, we should drink it in.
And if it comes with a 10 percent discount, even better.
