Yesterday I drove past a sign that said “Senior Crossing.” My second impulse was to take a “selfie” in front of it. But my first impulse was to riddle it with buckshot. Back in my Texas wild-west days, I would have pulled out my rifle and done just that. (Not that I ever drove around with a rifle. But I was damn good at the shooting range!) That bright yellow sign would make for excellent target practice.
God, I hate the term “senior.” I’ve learned to let it trip off my tongue when buying movie tickets, but find myself only able to ask for senior rates when booking hotel rooms online or over the phone. To ask in person feels like only calling attention to the obvious. It feels redundant seeing that most people behind counters are so young they would automatically assume I was ancient enough to qualify for senior rates.