Wouldn’t you like to expose your newer readers to some of you earlier posts that they might never have seen? Or remind your long term followers of posts that they might not remember?
Each Friday I will publish a post I wrote on this exact date in a previous year.
How about you? Why don’t you reach back into your own archives and highlight a post that you wrote on this very date in a previous year? You can repost your Friday Flashback post on your blog and pingback to this post. Or you can just write a comment below with a link to the post you selected.
If you’ve been blogging for less than a year, go ahead and choose a post that you previously published on this day (the 1st) of any month within the past year and link to that post in a comment.
This was originally posted on November 1, 2011 on my now defunct blog. It seems a fitting complement to this post about an experience at a grocery store yesterday morning.
Showing My Age
I have always prided myself on the fact (belief?) that I look younger than I am. I certainly don’t feel my age, and I often don’t act my age, either. I look at other people who are my age and am amazed at how old they look. And I think to myself how fortunate I am to not look my age. Thus, it came as quite a surprise to me last week when I learned that I apparently do look my age.
My wife and I were shopping at this marvelous San Francisco food market, Rainbow Grocery. It’s actually a cooperative that specializes in locally grown, organic products. Among its stated goals are to “provide affordable vegetarian food products, which have minimal negative impact ecologically and socially,” and to “buy goods from local organic farmers, collectives, bakers, dairies, and other local businesses whenever possible.”
Our daughter, who is a vegetarian and believes in buying from local, sustainable sources, will love this place once she moves out here in a few months. Well, she may not be thrilled with the prices, but then she and her husband have become accustomed to paying a premium for groceries when they regularly shop at their local Whole Foods Market.
But I digress. As we were checking out, the cashier looked at me and apparently saw some old fart standing across from her. “Senior?” she asked. I actually heard what she said, but was so shocked by it that all I could do was blankly stare back at her. Seeing me literally paralyzed, my wife finally said, “Yes, he’s a senior.”The cashier then hit some button on the register and, magically, my grocery total was reduced by ten percent.
Hey, I’m all about taking advantage of senior discounts. I can ride the San Francisco public transit system for 75¢ a pop instead of $2. And my movie tickets are discounted by around $2 or $3.
But when I got my transit pass, the Senior Clipper Card, it was me who provided the documentation to confirm that I’m a senior. When I buy a movie ticket, I’m the one who checks the box for a senior ticket when I buy them online. It’s me who informs others that I qualify for a senior discount. It’s not someone else who points out that I’m an old fart.
This traumatic event triggered a deeply suppressed memory from more than two decades ago. We were living in Dallas at the time and my wife was fixin’ to cook dinner. That’s what people in Dallas do…they’re always “fixin’” to do something…and they will occasionally get around to doing whatever it was that they were fixin’ to do.
But I digress yet again. My wife asked me to pick up a few items at the grocery store that she needed in order to finish fixin’ our dinner. I took our son, then around four or five years old, with me to the store. When we were checking out, the cashier looked at my son, smiled warmly, and asked him if he enjoyed spending time with his grandfather. Are you kidding me? His grandfather! I was only around 40 at the time.
What is it with these damn age-fixated grocery store cashiers?