If you know me, you know my age. If you don’t, well, you’ll just have to figure it out. But the important thing to remember is that I’ve become quite vain as I hurtle toward that half-century mark. Most of the time, I’m told I look much younger than I actually am. This may be because I don’t usually act my age.
But there are some clues flying around out there that I’m no spring chicken anymore. One such was the other day when I was out shopping in a department store. I had my cute little crop pants on, makeup still on from work, I thought I looked okay. I took my purchases (cute clothes and shoes and other girly girl stuff) to the counter to pay. As I’m standing there, the sales clerk asks me how old I am. (Well, it wasn’t a bar so I knew I wasn’t being carded, so I told her.) And then I committed a mortal sin. I asked her, “Why do you ask?” I should not have done that. Do you know what she told me? She said, “Oh, I just wanted to know if you qualified for the senior citizen discount, it’s Tuesday.”
Oh My Dog. Oh Long John. Oh Long Johnson. Oh Don Piaaaano. I couldn’t believe my ears. I told her, “Even if I show up in here with FRESH CEMETERY DIRT IN MY HAIR, do not give me the senior citizen discount!” I felt like Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment after Debra Winger informed her she was about to become a grandmother!