There are a number of points in a life which are milestones…some are remembered, some are before memory, but still documented by photos, aged with time. I'll assume that you, like me, have a predilection to view these milestones through the rose coloured glass of a romantic…my first "true love," for instance: an affair which I choose to recall with words such as "sweet", "tender", "heartfelt" and "cute" as opposed to the likely (if repressed) reality of "clumsily executed", "socially awkward", and "traumatic for all involved".
To this day, I believe that I am responsible for convincing at least one young lady that a future in the Lesbian community was far preferable to the dreadful interactions with men that I represented. A hell of a feat in the conservative Midwest.
Some of these milestones are marked by society…Baby's First Tooth. Communion. The first time you drive away, solo, in Dad's car. The first time you got into a bar with a fake ID, and the first time you got in with your real ID.
Of course, I'm at a later stage…one where you remember being carded at a bar, although you no longer are. Actually, I'm even past that – the occasional youthful bartender still asks for my ID out of good natured humour, as if to say "it's ok, Pops…we'll go through the motions like you're still a young Turk."
I crossed another of those points today – my first concession purchase.
Feel free to gasp.
At the entrance to the local pool, just heading in to do a few laps (the right foot is still playing up and I've been told to exercise in the water as opposed to my far preferred trail runs), I put my credit card on the counter:
"That'll be $7.50. Are you a student or do you have a concession or pension card?"
"No, all good."
"Are you over 50, sir?"
. . . pause . . .a rather loooong pause.
"uh…yeah, I'm 54."
"Oh, that's wonderful. I can save you $2.50!"
Now this sweet young thing was just being helpful. She wasn't being mean spirited, nasty, spiteful or ageist in any way. And she certainly had no intention in being the catalyst for one of my "Life Moments." In much the same manner as Mrs. Einstein having no intent of unleashing such a mountain of equations for future mathematicians to unravel and explain, still managed to produce Baby Albert.
And yet, intent aside, the damage was done…by both Mrs. Einstein and my hapless pool counter clerk.
I swiped my card, thanked her, and got about halfway down the hall towards the pool when I turned and headed back to the desk.
"Pardon me, ma'am…could I get a copy of the receipt please?"
"Certainly," she replied. "One second."
I put the receipt on the counter and snapped a quick shot of it with my iPhone, suddenly conscious of the enormous amount of change which had happened since my first love. My first tooth. My first cruise ship gig. My first time returning home after my first time away from home.
Changes in technology, attitude, latitude, life circumstance. Cars, bars, motorcycles, airplanes. Careers, running distances, musical instruments. My cruise ship homes, now converted to rust. Wives, families, pets. The odd unicycle of my youth rolled away into the back corner of my memory. Goals made, gained, readjusted, achieved and released.
Change.
It must have concerned my young clerk:
"Are you alright, sir? Is that the right amount?"
Again, a pause…
"Yes, of course, miss," I replied after stuffing everything back into the shadows of yesteryear. "It's just…I've never been offered a senior discount before."
Can you see it? How perfectly I set myself up for the fatal blow, completely without intent? I doubt she did, and yet she still delivered the hit.
"Oh, I find that hard to believe. You could have been saving for quite some time."
Silence. Had a door been present, it would have slammed with the same sound as the end of Thriller…a deep, soul crushing THUD, followed by ten good seconds of reverb and Vincent Price's epic laugh.
iPhone in pocket, a brisk nod to the clerk, accompanied by a "thank you" and hasty retreat to the pool to nurse my injured foot and wounded pride of age.
I'm now back at home, contemplating finding a park bench where I intend to hurl abuse at young people. I'll do it in a New York accent. May even find a cardigan and some slippers just to complete the look.
"ya little hooligan, get off the damned grass. That's right, I'm talking to you, ya little putz."
Maybe even have a conversation with one of the little shits and ask them if they've ever heard of the Eagles or Bob Marley.