The Senior Citizen Discount
One of our favorite things to buy at a senior discount is a trip to the local Chuck-A-Rama on Monday night, family night. Tragically, we go to watch the kids. So far, we at least haven’t gone at four in the afternoon. We wait until grown-up dinnertime. Five thirty. Okay, it’s a little early, but you don’t have to wait in line.
Really, it’s just great to sit down and eat your cooked mixed vegetables without having to scream at anyone. So we’re alone, who cares? We love each other. We’re interesting even without kids.
It’s just that we have nothing else to talk about but our kids. We actually haven’t had a life for the last forty years that didn’t involve our kids. But, hey, so what? We can watch. We had that glazed smile dieters have at a bakery: “No thanks, we don’t want any.” But at the same time, there’s a little bit of longing there. Otherwise we’d go to a restaurant in Utah County where there weren’t so many kids (except no one has ever discovered that place.)
The Senior Discount is a rite of passage. That it’s staggered, 64 for the movies, 62 for dinner at cheap restaurants, 65 for plane tickets, makes it less of a blow, less of a defined moment in life. But still, the staggering gives it a certain inexorable quality, like dying a little more every day. That first discount seems exciting, then the doctor bills are rolling in and your face is getting more and more wrinkled, and pretty soon, three bucks off a movie ticket doesn’t seem like much of a bargain. It seems like a bad joke.
There’s also the issue of saying in a line of teenagers and thirty-something’s, “I’d like the SENIOR DISCOUNT!” That’s what it sounds like, like it jumped out between your false teeth at full volume.
Where did the magic go? It’s gone, baby, gone.
And what about the time when you’re 60 and you think it’s okay if you look 50, maybe even 45. What crazy fool thinks it’s okay to look 45? What on earth could possibly be construed as good news about looking 45? Once you pass 40, there’s no point in thinking your body is your friend.
Forty is the last attractive age. You have a few of those little eye wrinkles that make you look a worn around the edges, but experienced rather than decayed. You look knowing rather than known. Your kids can still recognize your high school picture
At forty your bum is still located somewhere in back of your belly button instead of on it’s way to resting on top of the backs of your knees. Which still work, unlike when you’re 60 and they don’t anymore. One of the reasons for a senior discount is that they’re grateful they can still get some of your money what with your new $500 trifocal glasses and your oxygen tank.
Soon no one even notices when you ask for a senior ticket. No one notices that you’re knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door. Lately I’ve been thinking about soft foods. I’m worried about tapioca pudding. I’ve always liked tapioca pudding, but now I’m willing to eat it. Pretty soon I’ll be remembering the old days.
Really, it’s just great to sit down and eat your cooked mixed vegetables without having to scream at anyone. So we’re alone, who cares? We love each other. We’re interesting even without kids.
It’s just that we have nothing else to talk about but our kids. We actually haven’t had a life for the last forty years that didn’t involve our kids. But, hey, so what? We can watch. We had that glazed smile dieters have at a bakery: “No thanks, we don’t want any.” But at the same time, there’s a little bit of longing there. Otherwise we’d go to a restaurant in Utah County where there weren’t so many kids (except no one has ever discovered that place.)
The Senior Discount is a rite of passage. That it’s staggered, 64 for the movies, 62 for dinner at cheap restaurants, 65 for plane tickets, makes it less of a blow, less of a defined moment in life. But still, the staggering gives it a certain inexorable quality, like dying a little more every day. That first discount seems exciting, then the doctor bills are rolling in and your face is getting more and more wrinkled, and pretty soon, three bucks off a movie ticket doesn’t seem like much of a bargain. It seems like a bad joke.
There’s also the issue of saying in a line of teenagers and thirty-something’s, “I’d like the SENIOR DISCOUNT!” That’s what it sounds like, like it jumped out between your false teeth at full volume.
Where did the magic go? It’s gone, baby, gone.
And what about the time when you’re 60 and you think it’s okay if you look 50, maybe even 45. What crazy fool thinks it’s okay to look 45? What on earth could possibly be construed as good news about looking 45? Once you pass 40, there’s no point in thinking your body is your friend.
Forty is the last attractive age. You have a few of those little eye wrinkles that make you look a worn around the edges, but experienced rather than decayed. You look knowing rather than known. Your kids can still recognize your high school picture
At forty your bum is still located somewhere in back of your belly button instead of on it’s way to resting on top of the backs of your knees. Which still work, unlike when you’re 60 and they don’t anymore. One of the reasons for a senior discount is that they’re grateful they can still get some of your money what with your new $500 trifocal glasses and your oxygen tank.
Soon no one even notices when you ask for a senior ticket. No one notices that you’re knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door. Lately I’ve been thinking about soft foods. I’m worried about tapioca pudding. I’ve always liked tapioca pudding, but now I’m willing to eat it. Pretty soon I’ll be remembering the old days.
Comments