Getting older . . .

I will be the first to admit this. I am getting old. I see it and feel it every day. This is not so bad, really. I know it is inevitable and irreversible. I appear older than I actually am chronologically. Thinking back, this has always been the case. My voice deepened earlier than most other boys. I grew a beard earlier than most in my class. Appearing older than my age actually had some advantages back then.

When I was eighteen, I had a sixteen-year-old girlfriend. When we could afford it, we liked to go to The Magic Pan in Ghirardelli Square, San Francisco. We would order a dinner of crepes and a nice glass or two of white wine. I guess she also appeared older than she was. I did not abuse this ability to drink underage without being “carded.”  In fact, I only did it a couple of times with this one girlfriend. Maybe that time in the 1970s was just a bit more relaxed when it came to restaurants checking people’s driver’s licenses to see if they were of legal drinking age.

Now, nearing 60, my one-time red beard is close to white: OK, it is white. I still look older than I am and older than I feel most of the time. (But I have to admit that I am starting to feel as old as I look.)

Recently, I was out shopping for household groceries. I was in the checkout line of a natural food store in town. This nice-looking, younger woman was running the register. We chatted a bit as she entered my purchases into the system. She told me the total, and I ran my card to pay. Something about this seemed off. My total was less than what I had been predicting in my head. Outside, I quickly dug out the receipt. The entries looked right. Then I saw it. Down at the bottom of the receipt, I saw the words, “Senior discount applied- You saved this much money.”  What? Senior discount? She thinks I am a senior?

This was traumatic at first. Sure, I must be close to their senior discount criteria, and I know I have always looked older than I am. But do I look that old? My inner youth screamed in agony.

Now, when I go to that store, I try to remember which cashier thinks I am old enough to qualify for their senior discount. It is not much, but I find I want that discount. But I must be getting old. I can’t even remember which one of them gave me the discount, and that was only a few weeks ago.