Like this:

Age is a funny thing; and often a sensitive subject with women.  One of life’s taboos or unwritten rules is that you never ask a woman her age, especially if you don’t want your eyeballs scratched out have gotten used to the sense of sight and enjoy it.   This is irrational given that age is only a number; it defines nothing about you personally.  It marks legal milestones; getting your licence, buying booze and then the penultimate: the senior’s discount.  Other than this, it is but a means by which one can determine your year of birth.

 

To give you the reader a frame of reference for this rant, I must start by telling you that I am in my early 30′s.  And by early thirties I don’t mean 34 years, 11 months and 26 days.  I mean 31.  This story starts with me at Winn-Dixie; my grocery store of choice here in Southern Florida when I was asked for proof of age (note to the reader: they not only sell wine and beer at the food stores down here; they have ISLES dedicated to themJ).  Time.  Stood.  Still.  It took me a couple of seconds to process that the lovely cashier, Ashleigh, thought there was a chance, however minute, that I was under 21.  Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?  If she was male I would have blurted out “Marry me”.  I provided the necessary documentation and was on my merry way.  My grin was still visible hours later while I recounted to story to anyone who would listen friends at dinner. 

 

Just 24 hours later, I found myself at the check out in TJ Maxx; God’s third gift to the female population after 1) Advil Liquid Gels and b) Aspartame.  As I am about to swipe the plastic the cashier asks me if I would like to apply for a Seniors Card.  Processing this question quickly, I query “Whuuutdidyoujussaytome?”  Steffon, in a rather deadpan tone, simply replies that he “….was wondering whether I would like to apply to get the discount given to those 55+, maaaaam”.  Grin.  Gone.  Rather than have him repeat the offending question to me, I ask him point blank if he really thinks that I am even close to 55 years old.  Receiving no response, I decide to play along and jokingly inform Steffon that I am a couple years short of 55.  Wink. Wink. His reply: “What are you, about 35-40?”  Now I am piss*d off; royally.  When guessing my age you estimate 20 years LESS than you initially suggested.  I don’t even bother with decorum and just declare “Steffon, I am 31.  Thank you.”  Failing to recognise how inappropriate and offensive his comments have been to this point; he says “Really, you don’t look it.  I would say mimum 35 years.”  Lacking the ability to stop myself, I retort: “I didn’t know mimim was a word.  Can you clarify; does that mean you think I look 35, younger or older?”  I leave without uttering any of the usual pleasantries.   I know, I know age is only a number but 55? Bivitch please.

 

How could two people have such disparate perceptions of a person’s age??  How? Ashleigh felt compelled to ask me for identification to buy liquor while her peer Steffon deemed it necessary to ask me if I wanted to apply for a senior’s discount.  Surely one cannot age in excess of three decades in 24 hours.  One litre of wine and 6 hours in the sun cannot have such severe ramifications on my appearance, could it? 

 

As fate would have it; days later I returned to the scene of the crime TJ Maxx to return something and guess who was working the cash again??  You guessed it: Steffon.  Quickly recognising me, he asked if it was my birthday and I was here to claim my senior’s discount.  Well played my friend, well played. 

JLM

Advertisement