I’m not one to complain but the other day I received the senior discount at Mother Earth’s Storehouse in Kingston. I assume, dear reader, that your initial response is a giant “so what?”, or perhaps a jaw-breaking yawn, but I assure you this type of offense cannot be overlooked. We live in a society of rules and to ignore an infraction of this scale is to dance around the skewered, fly-ridden head of the wild boar with Simon and Piggy. (My son is reading Lord of the Flies in school, which essentially means I’m also reading Lord of the Flies.)

I’m fully aware that on the surface this may seem like a rather small thing but considering that I’m in my early 50s, this ageist violation has brought on a level of melancholy that I’d not thought possible. The young person checking me out was, by all measures, wonderful. They greeted me with genuine happiness. They handled my selections efficiently and delicately. They made eye contact and offered me a smile. Mother Earth should probably give them a raise. They are representing the store well. Thus it came as a real surprise when they essentially fragged me with an elder grenade. Remember, I’m in my early 50s. EARLY! Okay, I’m about to turn 53 so technically I’m in my mid-early 50s, not to be confused with the mid-50s which is obviously a long way down the road for me. Actually, if we want to really get into it then I’m in my early, mid-early 50s so you can see why I’d be so caught off guard by their offer of a senior discount.

I can hear you now. “There’s no way he’s a senior. He’s so virile!” “That’s an insult to early mid-early 50s people everywhere!” “Let’s burn the place down!” Your loyalty is commendable, beloved reader, and you raise valid points but let’s not resort to violence. Yes, my hair is mostly gray and is generally abandoning the USS Scalp, as it were. Yes, my beard has pretty much made an Ansel Adams out of my face. Yes, I have some lines on my visage that are probably better described as griddle marks. Mmmm, pancakes. And perhaps my belly has gotten a bit distended from the slowing of my metabolism … and, again, pancakes. But I’m not fat. I’m husky. Mom says so. That means the stuff that’s hanging under my chin and over my belt isn’t fat. It’s husk.

Actually, I think the waddle below my chin is just a storage area for all the excess handsome that’s draining out of my face. There’s so much! It’s got to go somewhere. But none of that would add 15 years to my appearance. In truth, it would have to add more like 25 years since I’m pretty sure I look 10 years younger than my actual age which means I appear like an early, mid-early 40s man which is easily 20 years younger than a mid-60s person who would actually be eligible for the senior discount. I have a chart if you’re confused.

Back to the violation that occurred at the grocery. The wonderful, young person at the check-out didn’t ask my age. They didn’t request an ID to verify my date of birth. They simply announced, in their oh-so-pleasant voice, “Annnnnd with the senior discount that comes to…” My hearing aids work just fine so I’m certain that’s what they said. Has anybody heard of the word “consent”? They just assumed I was older than I was. And we all know that old adage about what happens when you “assume.” Well, that word is also an anagram for “Ma Sues,” as in my mom is gonna sue your ass for defamation. I hear that’s a big thing in the courts these days. And this incredibly competent young person did it right in front of all those people in line behind me.

Those folks all looked old, like legit old. I can’t say I’m 100 percent sure of their age because my vision isn’t what it used to be, but you can just tell with these things. What did it feel like for the old folks behind me to see someone who is so obviously ineligible for the discount getting in on their action? Great job, delightful, totally professional check-out worker. You managed to insult multiple generations with one fell swoop.

It was obviously an incredibly awkward moment. The tension was so thick the air felt like the wheat-germ anti-aging cream I’d just purchased. Everyone sensed it. Even the young man who was waiting to help me carry my bags to the car. Such a nice boy. Must have good parents.

What was I to do? I could have created a scene and demanded they remove the 10 percent discount from my bill, but how would that make the actual old people behind me feel? I didn’t want to age-shame anyone. Senex ignominia. (That’s Latin for aged shame. I’m not sure but it might also be a type of Spanish cheese. Mmmmm, cheese.) Unlike the super-helpful Mother Earth staff, I am aware that people who aren’t in their early mid-early 50s have feelings too. I could see it on their faces! Again, I could only make out so much since I wasn’t able to find my glasses. Turns out they were on my head the whole time. Ha ha ha! That happens to me so much these days.

Anyway, what was I just talking about?