|
Reflections from a Country Store |
|
|
|
Written by Jean Blackmon Waszak
|
|
Saturday, 25 November 2006 |
|
Senioritis
I’m feeling sensitive about my age. It’s because I’m having one
of those big birthdays with a zero in it. Just when I thought I’d
conquered every rite of passage —graduation, marriage, children,
children’s graduations, grandchildren— this birthday, which I’d never
thought about, sneaks up and presents another challenge.
I tend to cope with birthdays in stages which include (1) denial, (2)
anger,(3) moment of truth, (4) depression, (5) acceptance.
Two weeks ago I was in denial. I thought of myself as “middle
aged.” Then I did the math and realized that there is nothing
“middle” about my age. No one on earth is twice as old as I am.
No one. Nevertheless, I persevered., and convinced myself that I
look younger, work harder, and lift more weight at the gym than women
half my age. But women half my age aren’t exactly youngsters
either.
So last Monday when the photographer from the Albuquerque Journal came
to take my picture, I was a little nervous about what the camera might
show. The Journal was doing a story about Christmas shopping in
Corrales, and I had spent the weekend putting up decorations at the
Frontier Mart. The photographer stood me in front of a
poinsettia, then knelt down and shot upward toward Santa Claus who was
perched near the ceiling over the produce.
Snap. Snap. The photographer was gone. And I was left
wondering whether I had lifted my chin enough to minimize my second
chin, and whether I had smiled enough, but not too much. The
story and photo came out two days later. Before I even saw the
paper, friends called to say I looked great. One even said I
looked young.
When I saw the photo I agreed it was a success considering what we had
to work with. The photographer’s low vantage point looking up
toward Santa minimized any droop, and the light from the south window
hid my wrinkles. The photographer was a genius. And I
looked young for my age.
That’s why it hit me so hard later that day when I encountered the
young man at the Goodwill Store. After I work out at the gym, I
often go next door to Goodwill. I’ve found some real treasures
there.
On that particular day I found a cozy little love seat that was just
what I wanted. When I stepped to the counter to buy it, I
was greeted by a polite young man who was almost child-like in his
eagerness to please me
“Ma’am, would you like to use your senior citizen’s discount?” he asked.
It was not a question I was prepared to answer. My birthday was
still two weeks away. I wanted to say “I’m not a senior yet,” but
I held my tongue and just stared. This young man with the honest
face obviously thought I looked like a senior. I felt a flash of
anger because that meant I look older than my age by at least two
weeks!
Then the young man grabbed a pencil and started writing down
numbers. “You could save eight dollars,” he said, smiling,
waiting for my approval, expecting me to agree.
But I was thinking what a terrible choice I had to make. Did I
want to save eight dollars and admit that I am old, or spend eight
dollars and hang on to the illusion that I wouldn’t be old for two more
weeks?
“I’m not old enough for a Senior discount,” I said.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fifty-nine,” I answered.
“That’s okay,” he said. “We give you the discount when you’re fifty-five.”
I didn’t know whether I felt better or worse.
“Okay,” I said, saving myself eight dollars, embracing the fact that I’d already been old for five years without knowing it.
“Good,” he said. He was obviously proud that he’d saved me money.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling depressed, thinking I’d go eat an
eight-dollar lunch, wondering if in two weeks when my birthday arrives,
I’ll be ready to celebrate.
|
