06.08.08
It has happened. I’ve joined the “senior” brigade
When I was younger, say twenty years ago, I used to dread going out to eat with my mother. She’d act a little strange. For starters, she would insist that very little ice be put into her soft drink. She didn’t want to be “cheated.” Only, she’d make matters worse by explaining that too much ice upset her stomach, and she’d explain the “problem” to the waitress, without batting an eyelash. I can’t bring myself to tell you what she said exactly. You are just glad you weren’t there to be embarrassed, too.
One day, I took her out for Chinese food. Well, it seems that she had picked up the habits of the senior van folks she’d been hanging out with. Anything that wasn’t nailed down, went into the pocketbook. They all carried pocketbooks as large as suitcases. After completely terrifying the Chinamen that day, while I was paying the bill, she was scarfing up all the “free” matches, take-out menus, and toothpicks. At that point, only I knew that she was not in her right mind. They just thought she was a thief!
I know another senior who always insists on ordering from the kiddie menu. This person has been told repeatedly that her childhood is long past.
Then, there are the senior discounts. My husband customarily wears a hat. If you see a fat lady, poking her husband, and pointing to his hat in McDonald’s, she could be me! I always figure that if they see his lovely, bald head (that I adore), they will figure we are old foggies and give us a break. They usually do.
Of course, we get the occasional questions as to whether or not we are really seniors. How does one define a senior? Someone at age 50? 55? 60? 62? 65? Hey, does it count that I’m a grandmother, and that some days, I feel like I’m a banana peel away from slipping from view? Personally, I think that the gray hair should be an automatic qualification.
One thing I’ll not be doing is investing in a pile of large baggies into which to slip the extra rolls, and maybe the salt and pepper shakers, to add to my collection. I’ll not buy the super-duper plastic bags that are guaranteed to be leak-proof, and go to an eat-as-much-as-you-want buffet and stock up! There is a limit!
Just take my advice and watch out for those little old ladies who smile a lot. You just never know what they are going to do next. In closing, I have to tell you that, every day, I fight the thought that a dear friend shared with me, years ago:
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, I am my mother, after all.”
You just never know.
Patricia Cummings
