…I ate my first Senior Meal a few months ago.
Several facts to understand about the process:
1. In Florida (where I visited relatives yearly) ‘senior’ is defined as being at LEAST 65 – often 70 years plus. ‘Cause in FLA, most EVERYONE is over 55. In fact, in Florida I am a ‘whippersnapper’, ‘young’, etc. That in itself might be reason enough to move; but given the humidity, bugs, and the fact that all drivers are ‘old’ (and at least half should be hiring a chauffeur to keep da roads safe), I’ll stay right here in sunny California, thankyouverymuch…
2. In said sunny California, where the average age appears to be around 30, ‘senior discounts’ regularly begin at around 55. Some as low as 50!
STILL – having the helpful 20-something waitress point out (in response to my query about wanting ‘something small’) the Senior Selection means that (a) they DO make meals for me and (b) I obviously looked OLD ENOUGH to imbibe.
I scuttled home and looked in the mirror.
Big Bang Theory teeshirt: check. Gaily painted multicolor fingernails: check. Hmmm – never did get those fuchsia hair extensions put in….and never found those glow-in-the-dark, turns-into-skates sneakers athletic shoes in my size.
That must be it. All I need is a few more PROPS to maintain the nonverbal message that “I am TOO YOUNG to even be THINKING about a Senior Meal.”
I complained bitterly to 67-year-old Peanut Gallery. The advantage of having someone around who is 12 years older: there’s always someone who totally relates to every ache and pain. The disadvantage: TOTAL lack of sympathy towards any complaints about aging.
All I got in response to my “How DARE they think I am…?” was the stink eye and a too-candid assessment of (a) graying hair and (b) sun-induced freckles (note: NOT age-induced blemishes…).
And a LOT of laughter.
Till I slunk off searching for a more sympathetic ear.
Soz I called my Mom for sympathy, as daughters do. Let fire a little sobbing over my ‘senior moment’.
She just laughed and hung up.
Now, sporting 90 years, in my book, does NOT give one license to rudeness. And besides; can’t a daughter complain about getting old and get some SYMPATHY?
BUT, WAIT…I’m NOT OLD….
I’m simply requesting SMALLER PORTIONS.
“…I must be getting old; I can’t eat those mice like I used to!”