Another guest post
Deb O'Connor
Is there a Senior in your mirror?
Last night I attended a west high school jazz band performance, and a student at the door told me the cost was $2. When I mentioned it to my son he got a funny look on his face, then told me it was because I was charged the senior rate. Oh.
Reflecting on that, I have to acknowledge I was a bit shocked to realize the girl came to that conclusion by simply looking at me. Despite wearing my trusty jean jacket and snazzy red shoes, this blonde child mistook me for an old person.
What the hell happened here? When I look in the mirror, I just see me, the same face I've always had. I don't see blue hair curled into waves, or a hair net, like my nana had. She was definitely an old person, but me?
There must be a mistake here. My sympathies still lie with the misunderstood youngsters, the underdogs, and anybody who has had the misfortune to run up against Authority. I haven't forgotten the sweet anguish of youth, the passion for life.
Is that what Sinatra meant about being young at heart? I hope so, because my corporeal self is letting me down, and I'm not ready to give in to old age, not by a long shot.
Is there a Senior in your mirror?
Last night I attended a west high school jazz band performance, and a student at the door told me the cost was $2. When I mentioned it to my son he got a funny look on his face, then told me it was because I was charged the senior rate. Oh.
Reflecting on that, I have to acknowledge I was a bit shocked to realize the girl came to that conclusion by simply looking at me. Despite wearing my trusty jean jacket and snazzy red shoes, this blonde child mistook me for an old person.
What the hell happened here? When I look in the mirror, I just see me, the same face I've always had. I don't see blue hair curled into waves, or a hair net, like my nana had. She was definitely an old person, but me?
There must be a mistake here. My sympathies still lie with the misunderstood youngsters, the underdogs, and anybody who has had the misfortune to run up against Authority. I haven't forgotten the sweet anguish of youth, the passion for life.
Is that what Sinatra meant about being young at heart? I hope so, because my corporeal self is letting me down, and I'm not ready to give in to old age, not by a long shot.
7 comments:
At least you didn't start the post "remember when"! That'll make you really old
In a marketing effort to score points with seniors who aren't seniors Shopper's Drug Mart now sets the bar for seniority at 55.
If customer loyalty -combined with profit- demanded it, Shopper's would declare the age of elderness to begin shortly after puberty, around 12 or 13 I suspect.
Your post couldn't have been more human.
I don't want to give in the old age either, but then again, can I jump off the kitchen chair after putting in the ceiling light? Well, yes, once.
Below the photo is a poem called Graceless Aging. http://poetency.blogspot.com/2009/10/he-stood-there-in-remnants.html
"After a lifetime of flights of furious fancy
in the vast lunatic lunaverse of my imagination
I am descending onto the runway
without landing gear."
That's exactly the trouble -I DON'T remember when. Christ, half the time I can't even remember what I had for breakfast let alone wax nostalgic about the the days when I had hair and teeth.
I saw my first "shock of grey hair" in the mirror around my temples when I was 28 years old.
I stopped worrying about it right around the same time.
Every wrinkle, every white hair, every year is hard-earned and brings additions to the store of knowledge.
As to price discounts, give them to me. I don't care what the stated reasons are.
You are sometimes mistaken by others for old. I am sometimes mistaken by others for smart. It all evens out in the big picture.
Speaking of being really old, Ben, what about your joy at finding a coupon book that gets you cheap breakfasts. If you are going to early bird dinner specials too, I`d have to say that puts the last nail in your coffin of old age.
Next comes the white shoes and matching belt, and driving way too slow.
I used to be the youngest one at work, then one day I was the oldest. Something must have happened in between, if I could only remember.
Post a Comment