Golden Years

Years ago, I offered my seat on the subway to an older gentleman who was standing close to me.

He was using a cane and seemed to be having some difficulty, so I thought it would be a nice gesture to let him sit him down. However, he politely declined my invitation and then turned to a woman I presumed was his wife.

“Do I look that bad?” he whispered to her.

Now that I’m a senior citizen myself—ye gods—I’m starting to understand how this man felt. People aren’t hopping aside for me on the D train, (far from it) but one of my neighborhood businesses managed to irritate me.

Now I have no trouble asking for senior discounts.

Obviously, I wish I were younger, but since that’s not an option, then I will unashamedly demand my geezer markdown on my telephone bill, subway fare, even my car rentals on those extremely rare occasions when I rent a set of wheels.

My supermarket has joined the fossil parade, offering a 10% discount every Wednesday to all people 65 years old and older.

Of course, they don’t go out of their way to tell you. There is a tiny sign on the customer-facing screen at the registers announcing the discount, but I did manage to see it despite my failing eyesight.

And I do appreciate the chance to save a few shekels. However, the announcment includes this atrocious illustration of an elderly couple just to make sure we get the point.

Cash or Credit?

The people in this image don’t look able to walk to the supermarket let alone shop there. They seemed like they’re getting their meals intravenously--and not for much longer.

I usually do my grocery shopping on Saturdays, but I am a bit more flexible now that I work remotely. A few weeks ago, I did a test run on a Wednesday morning to see if they were on the level.

The discount was legit, but I was a little surprised when the cashier asked to see my ID.

I’m getting proofed--at this age? I went through that routine decades ago at bars and clubs whenever I tried to get a beer. Now you’re busting on my at this stage of life?

“Don’t I look old?” I asked the young woman behind the register as I fished out my driver’s license.

“I don’t want to judge,” she said with a smile.

I went back last Wednesday with a longer list. When I got to the register, I jokingly registered my displeasure with the illustration.

“I don’t look like that,” I said.

The manager and cashier were a both a little nervous, perhaps worried I was going to start a scene.

“We just needed an image,” the manager said. “It’s nothing personal.”

I assured her that I was just kidding and proceeded to load up my shopping cart all on my own with no help from anyone.

Yeah, the sign is annoying, but I knocked 12 bucks off my bill, so I’m in a forgiving mood.

But God help the first son-of-a-bitch who offers me a seat on the subway.