Remember in my last post, the snarky comment about getting senior discounts in a family restaurant if you remembered that song? It wasn’t really meant to be snarky.
I was out with my mom Saturday night for dinner at one of a local chain of family restaurants. When finished, Mom paid first, and got her discount, and then I paid … and got my discount.
Buh…? I was forty-nine years, four months, two weeks, and five days old that day. It doesn’t even round up to 50. The cashier didn’t ask my age or anything. I don’t know what their minimum age for senior discounts is. I doubt it’s, say, 45.
I probably should’ve said something, so I could pay my fair share (I have done this in stores before when they undercharged…why, yes, I am that much of a boy scout), but I decided to take the money and run. I actually didn’t know what to do. Mom, of course, giggled like a girl.
I guess I don’t have to fear turning fifty. It appears that it’s going to be a very gradual process that has started already.