Mid-way through my fiftieth year, I am finding that I am in that no-woman’s land between not being young anymore, and not quite being old, either. Of course, that all depends on the relative age of the person calling you one or the other, but for the sake of argument, let’s just say that this age, “middle-age”, is a strange limbo in between other, better quantifiable places.
But I have had a couple of indications that it won’t be long before I have irretrievably stepped over into the land of well and truly OLD. I got my first “senior” discount this year, at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Atlantic City. I was chatting with the counter clerk, and I think she just wanted to be nice, and offered me a discount on my coffee and sandwich. Yeah, baby, nothing wrong with a discount! Only, when she said that it was a “senior” discount…it felt like a punch in the tailbone. A WHAT? For ME? After a second to think, I simply said “thank you”, because, hey, why pay her more money? Even though it was probably just to be nice, that was a tough line to cross, like my first grey eyebrow hair. Here it comes…the old.