I forget I’m not 25, the age I feel, until the grocery clerk asks, “Do you qualify for any special discounts today?”
I look at him like my brains have fallen out and my mouth forgot how to articulate, until the bagger shouts, “Senior Discount! Senior Discount!”
Her voice reaches that tiny speck of comprehension somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain pan, and I screech, “Yes! I’m a senior!
People in line behind me stare, but it doesn’t faze me, because I’m happy about saving $69.84.
“Thank you, Stephanie,” I say to the bagger as I wheel my cart away.
I wobble and jangle across the parking lot to reach my car and lift the trunk open. The twinge in my shoulder that blossoms into a flower of pain the higher I reach reminds me I am not always so glad to be 50 years older than the age I feel.
Who planned that our mental self would stay the same while our bodies traveled on, losing bolts and screws, and rusting stuck?
And anyway, how did that grocery clerk know I was a senior when I was wearing a mask?