Spring Chicken

I woke this morning feeling twice my age, as if I’d been catapulted into geriatric infirmity. Lead-footed. Slow. Achy.  Brain-dead. But the clock said it was past time to get up, so I did.  Get. Up.  

Shuffling to the hallway, I moaned quietly and returned to climb back between the sheets.  With the second attempt (10 minutes later), I knew there was no going back.  I’d force the issue.  Surely things would get better.

By late morning I’d revived enough to run errands in The City, although residual weight still seemed to perch on either side of my neck, slowing me down. I was grateful to finally finish shopping at the health food store, my next-to-the-last stop.

“I would appreciate the senior discount on whatever applies,” I said to the checkout lady.  This is my standard mantra. I’ve saved quite a bit by taking advantage of this store’s markdowns for seniors, but the discount is not automatic – you have to request it.

“Sorry, the senior discount applies only to people who are 60 and older,” she replied pleasantly.

“I’m 65,” I answered, smiling.

“You’re not!”  She seemed genuinely surprised.

I couldn’t believe it.  I felt much older than 65.  And no one had ever questioned my senior status in the past! “Yes, I am – I can show you my driver’s license if you like.  My birthday was a month ago.”  She believed me, but said the law required her to ask for my ID anyway since I was purchasing a bottle of sulfite-free wine.  (And of course I might not be 21 yet.  Riiiiiight.)  

“You’ve done well,” she said appreciatively.  “Good for you!”

Suddenly the remaining ton of bricks left from this morning slid right off my shoulders and landed on the floor with a thud.  I almost danced out the door with my bags, feeling like a brooding old hen that had pulled off a good trick of impersonating a spring chicken.  Brrk, brroock, broock, brk-ooock….Bwwaaaaaaaaaaaakkkkk!