Aging Gracelessly

Yesterday began as a near catastrophic day which necessitated a full 24 hour mental recovery period before I could even write about it.

I checked out at Walgreens with a buggy full of diet Snapple tea and large jugs of Clamato juice. There were no Geritol, Depends pads, prune juice, orthopedic shoe inserts, or other age-categorizing commodities in my basket. Granted, I had just been to the dentist, and half of my face—numb and unmoving—may have cast me as either a stroke victim or someone who had lost a bar fight with Novocain.

The clerk glanced at me while ringing up my tab and, in somewhat broken English, announced, “Today, and every Tuesday, is Senior Day. You get a discount.”

Thinking I must have misheard the word senior, I asked, “Do you mean sunny day? Or student day? Or SNAP day?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I said seen-your day.”

Double entendre.

Yes, I suppose I have seen my day.

He didn’t request my driver’s license for verification. Apparently, my face was evidence enough.

I stepped aside, assuming he had made a mistake and was speaking to the person behind me in line, only to outragiously discover there was no one there.

Attempting to recover, I casually stated that I would accept the discount. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to press the issue.

“Do I really look like a senior?”

He shrugged, grinned sheepishly, and muttered, “Well, yeah.”

I tossed my jugs of liquid into the car with enough force to splinter plastic and leave a slurry of tomato juice and tea in my trunk. On the drive home, I scoured my brain in pursuit of the official age at which one qualifies as a senior. There is no firm definition of this arbitrary social designation. Many consider sixty-five—the Medicare milestone—the official turning point, although Social Security benefits can start at sixty-two, for those who choose. Many businesses offer discounts to anyone fifty-five and older.

What the hell are we dealing with here?

I don’t like living in ambiguity.

Deciding the day was officially shot—a near all-out disaster—I made myself a generously poured Bloody Mary as soon as my discounted jugs landed on the countertop. Next, I retreated to the pool for an afternoon of sun, chlorine, and lounging with my dog.

There are distinct benefits of senior living: fewer commitments, no office hours, and a self-modulated schedule.

My analytical brain, in line with tradition, began ruminating. I dissected the event like a crime scene.

I wish I had stripped off all my clothes right there in Walgreens and said, “Well, my face might look sixty, but my body looks thirty.”

Of course, that probably would have led to a different kind of discount. Or an arrest.

I have spent my whole life trying to stay alive and live fully despite several chronic diseases and two near-death experiences. The result? I am still here. I once had a botched facelift that nearly landed me in a cedar box. I have had Botox, filler, microdermabrasion, microneedling, and every micro-whatever of the day. I have tried like hell to fight it.

And here I am—looking my age.

Sixty.

Oh, the audacity of it all.

And yet, I am so grateful to be alive and fully functional despite several close encounters with the hereafter. I thank God for my life and for the gift of waking up every morning albeit with creaky joints. I would take this over leaving the earth with a less weathered face.

Still, I speed-dialed my aesthetician and booked an appointment for a hydrafacial with a micro-something for the next day.

But I really wish Walgreens had kept their damned two dollars.