La tercera edad

On my way home I stopped in Gilroy to get a pair of black shoes—my usual, casual and comfortable and versatile Rockports. I know where the store is in the outlet center; it’s an easy off and on.

When I came to the counter to make my purchase them, the attendant asked, “Was there someone helping you?”

“No.”

“Would you like another pair at 40% off?

“No, thanks.”

“You are eligible for a discount if you are member of AAA or AARP.”

“I’m a member of AAA.” (Did she just say a member of AARP?)

Into my late twenties, I was carded. I found it as both compliment and an annoyance. When I got into my 30s I considered it was false flattery. I don’t remember when finally cashiers and barmaids stopped asking for my ID but it was uneventful. Not that that signaled my arrival into adulthood, but suddenly the carding stopped—no need for ID for beer or wine or alcohol.

“Sir, your purchase is one dollar short to be eligible for a $15 discount from AAA.”

“Yes….” (AARP. AARP. Really?)

“Would you like to buy something else?”

“I don’t need anything else.”  (It’s my gray hair or my wrinkles….)

“If you buy a pair of socks, it will be less than if you don’t.  Would you like a pair of socks?”

“Let me see. ”  (AARP? I don’t feel old.)

I chose a pair of black socks. I look at myself in the mirror behind the counter and squint to see the value of my hair.

“Thank you sir. You have a good evening.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

That weekend Robert was kidding with me. “Hector, your gray hair is catching up to me.”

“That’s OK, Robert. I am not vain.” I quipped.

I hold my vanity tightly like a crutch. And now I am ushered into the third age by a stranger.