I was waiting with my full grocery cart behind the woman being checked out. It was a Thursday, senior discount day. The woman seemed ancient, quite stooped, breathing a bit heavily. The young clerk at the register was making small talk while he scanned her items. He could have been her grandson — actually, her great-grandson.
He was absolutely charming with her: warm, funny, kind, engaged and engaging. I hadn’t seen a young man whose demeanor was that delightful since I don’t know when. Oh, I do know when: when I was looking in the mirror as a teenager. Yes, readers, this grocery clerk was THAT charismatic!
When he’d finished ringing her groceries up and thanked her, the old woman looked up and said: “Honey, it’s senior discount day.” The young man’s expression instantly turned stern: “I’m sorry Ma’am, I am going to need to see your ID.” All three of us burst out laughing as he sweetly assured her that he had given her the discount.
What a contrast this was to perhaps a year before, at the same grocery, also a Thursday. I was using the self-service checkout, and it was staffed that day by a young girl who seemed a bit overwhelmed. She was trying to keep an eye on five of us at different checkout stations, and we all looked old enough for the Senior discount. This meant she had to run over and place her discount badge on each of our scanners to register our 5% rebate.
The sour-faced woman to my left shocked me when she shooed the girl away as she approached with her badge. With not an ounce of warmth in her tone, she muttered, “I do not qualify.” The poor clerk’s face turned red as she apologized profusely.
How I wanted to come to the defense of this overworked, underpaid clerk and call out to the woman: “Well, you coulda fooled me, Lady!” Why anyone would refuse the discount and embarrass a store employee was beyond me. Was she that self-conscious about looking “senior”?
At age 78, it’s impossible for me not to think about my advanced age. I never liked the term “senior citizen,” and the term “golden years” was hijacked forever by Dorothy, Blanche, Rose and Sophia. Even I am not half as charming and witty as those golden girls.
It goes without saying that nobody likes to be thought of as aged, geriatric, or over-the-hill. On the other hand, I think all of us beyond age sixty would have to agree that we are advanced in years. I don’t even mind occasionally thinking of myself as old.
It’s being elderly that concerns me. The term “elderly” connotes physical and/or mental decline. Now that I’m old, I worry when I drive to a mall whether I will find a good parking spot. But I’ll know that I’ve turned elderly when I leave the mall and have absolutely no idea where that spot is.
We seem to live in an age where, for the wealthy, the facelift is at the forefront of fighting age. I have recently been practicing the costless alternative: the mind-lift. Behind our faces are our thoughts and perceptions, which can help keep us young if only we can lift our mind’s eye above our daily petty peeves, nip and tuck away negativities, and smooth our spirits with pleasing memories as botox smooths the forehead.
And by doing cosmetic repair to my mind rather than my face, it allows my countenance to reflect the victories and vicissitudes of my nearly eighty years of living. I like that. As we age, we learn to hide many of our deepest feelings and just keep our mouths shut. This is socially expedient but too coy for my taste. It gives me great comfort to know that when it comes to my old-guy opinions, even if my mouth doesn’t express them, my face definitely will.
Let me propose a toast to aging with a young mind and well seasoned face. Instead of champagne, may I suggest a glass of Elder-berry wine?
Email Elliot at huffam@me.com or click here