I am a huge believer in karma. The moment I even think about stepping out of line, something bites me to remind me that in life what goes around comes around, and you really have to hold to a strong personal ethic if you want to stay on the right side of the universe.
Case in point: Before Molly left for school, we made a stop at the Red White and Blue Thrift Shop in Hamilton. I love this place because it is a prime example of recycling at its best. I drop off boxes of stuff I no longer need; I come home with bags of stuff other people no longer need. It’s part of the circle of life. Bill, Katie, and Will have zero interest in this cosmic cycle. They adhere more to my own mother’s horror of such places that sell second-hand stuff. “Why would you want to wear dead people’s clothes” is what she asked me years ago when I first started frequenting thrift shops. Luckily I have one ally in the family.
So on this day, as Molly filled up our cart, I took a look at the neon screen that highlighted the day’s specials. It was senior special day — anyone 55 and older would get a 50 percent discount on everything. Those of you who know me in person — and those of you who have known me through this column — know that I cannot resist a bargain. I remember thinking that 55 was pretty young to be considered for a half-price senior discount — didn’t senior status kick in at 65, even if AARP (the American Association of Retired Persons) had started sending me brochures years ago? If my brain had a light meter, it would have started flashing as I did some quick mental calculations.
Let’s see, it was a new year, and that meant that with my birthday in June, I would be close — very close — to the age required for the discount, though technically I would not yet quite hit it. I could try to pass myself off as 55, but that would be dishonest and what kind of example would that be setting for my impressionable young daughter? Saving money would be nice, but how good would I feel knowing that I had lied? The thought of cheating the system was never a serious one, but it was fun to contemplate the choices.
So then we approached the counter, and this is where karma bit me. The pert, baby-faced girl behind the counter took our purchases, turned to me, and then asked, “Will you be applying your senior discount today?” Oh ho ho. Not so funny, actually. You see, the minute I thought about passing myself off as a senior, the universe perceived me as one. Was it because I had tied my hair back and the roots showed I was way behind schedule for a cut and color? Was it because I was wearing my best oversized button-down-shirt — admittedly in the granny category of fashion — and not my best youthful look?
And now, confession time: Shame on me, but I did consider responding with a yes, of course I would like my senior discount. (If I looked like one, didn’t I deserve it?) But then would she ask me for proof? Would I have to whip out my driver’s license and then be proven a liar? Sigh. No, I said, no discount today. I paid my $47 for about 10 items — wistfully thinking of the $23.50 I would have saved if I had had the guts to be dishonest for a teeny-tiny minute.
I was recounting this sad tale to a friend who told me — jokingly, I think — that I should have said, “Of course I’ll take the discount to which I’m entitled.” And then if asked for proof of age, I should have responded, “No I don’t have my license today. I was too infirm to drive and my daughter had to transport me here.”
Perception is fascinating. I feel young and I look in the mirror and the Euna that looks back at me seems not so very different from the Euna I have known through the ages. But I look at photos, especially now with Instagram and Facebook and Twitter, I can see myself posted instantly, and I can see the changes that time has wrought.
This was the first time I’ve been mistaken for a senior but this certainly won’t be the last. Perhaps a whole new chapter of my life is now opening up, where kind, handsome young men will stand up to give me a seat on the subway, where sweet young things of all ages and genders will open doors, carry my packages, and take my arm and help me cross the street.
It’s ironic because I was out there shoveling snow this week with whirling dervish-like intensity. In my mind I can still turn cartwheels and do “Y” dives — somersault over seven people standing on their heads with their legs spread in a Y — just like I used to do in college. On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to hit the hair salon and the gym with a little more discipline this year. I don’t have to rush the senior discount thing, as it will be here soon enough.
