Senior Citizen Discounts

Cards, points and whatever I can get

I thought I might never be surprised by a senior citizen asking for, or sneaking, a discount until I observed one at the blood center one day. I had donated blood and was sitting at the table having cranberry juice and my favorite Fig Newtons when an elderly gentleman wearing one of those oversized, heavy winter coats with duffle bags for pockets arrived to gather his wife, a fellow donor sitting across the table.

He proceeded to stuff the pockets with packets of Oreos and Fig Newtons. If I remember correctly, he snuck in a cranberry drink or two. Cunning.

“Have you donated?” I asked.

“Nah.”

“But you’re taking stuff meant for donors.”

“Aw, c’mon, they want ya ta have this stuff. Dats why it’s here.”

“Hmm, I thought. “They do if you’re a donor.” Oh well. Maybe the juice will pop open in his pocket.

  It reminded me of the old joke, “Why did the senior citizen cross the road?”

“Why, to get the discount, of course.”

The first time I was asked if I wanted a senior citizen discount was when I visited the Churchill War Rooms in London some years ago. Rather annoyed and indignant, I blurted, “What . . . do . . . you . . . MEAN?” I almost asked if she wanted an ID to show her I was NOT a senior citizen. I considered dropping down to do ten pushups.

“Why, Sir,” she replied, unflustered and in the politest Queen’s English, “You are entitled to it.”  Entitled. I liked it. I was entitled in England, not to royalty, but to the royal discount of 15%! I felt connected to The Queen.

“Why, uh, sure. OK,” I replied. From then on, I was hooked, a consummate crafty consumer, a discount predator, and a coveter, of THE discount. I became a discount connoisseur. You’ll like this story.

Not long ago, Diane and I went to a movie matinee. “Two tickets please.”

“That will be $12,” the young lady answered.

“I am a senior citizen, you know. Is there a discount? You must have a discount.”

“I know, Sir.” There’s that unflustered ‘Sir’ thing again. Initially, I disliked people calling me ‘Sir,’ but I'm OK with it now. It’s part of the senior advancement to acceptance. “But the discount starts two hours from now.”

“Well, Miss,” I replied, indignant again for the opposite reason. “I am a senior now, and . . . I will be . . .  in two hours.”

“You are right, Sir,” the young lady replied. “So, Sir, your ticket is five dollars, hers is seven. That will be twelve dollars please.” We laughed—a clever young lady. Diane wished we owned a company, so she could offer her a job.

My discount story did not end there. I went from stereotypically senior indignant to older embarrassed the day I took my grandson golfing. My sought-after thrift added a layer of humor, or so I thought, to the situation. I approached the gentleman in the pro shop. “Two of us, eighteen holes with a cart. How much?”

“Thirty-two dollars.”

“Harrumph,” I muttered under my breath. With cocksure certainty, I asked, “Is there a senior citizen discount?” I was no longer indignant, shy, or embarrassed; just a bonafide senior discount specialist though not wearing a heavy coat with large pockets.

He glanced over his glasses, his eyebrows covering the rims, an annoyed look on his bored face. Brusquely and baring his teeth, he stammered, “Whoa, whoa Buddy. Gimme a break here. Thirty-two dollars for two people with a cart! Are you kiddin’ me? I need to make a coupla bucks, ya know. Da ya want me ta trow in a sleeve a-balls or what?” I was grateful that he did not raise his voice.

I somewhat sheepishly looked around as I shuffled for my billfold. “Sorry,” I replied. “Here you go.”

I leave it alone now, taking what I get with appreciation, never asking, never indignant. I’ll take the freebie when I can and appreciate it. I know, I know, I should ask. But I don’t have to. My white hair gives me the privilege.

How ironic. Much more mellow, I have moved on from indignity and embarrassment. Now I have a billfold bursting with point cards for every restaurant, every grocery store, gas pump, and everything in between. I collect points for future discounts like the days of the Green Stamps but without the books. I can hardly keep track of my cards and my points.  And boy am I aggravated when I forget one of my discount cards. “Don’t you have my number on file?”

I have more cards

The other day, my desk drawer was stuck because of the piles of discount point cards nestled up under the rim. I used my letter opener to liberate them. As I did, I had another thought. “These babies are worth something. Should I call my lawyer and ask if they should be in my will?”

Let’s look at it his way. My discounts are important because they recognize my contributions to society, help my social needs, and enhance my quality of life. Oh, brother. Now I’m losing it. Never mind. I do it because I want the deal.

Oh my God, I need help. Hmm, do psychiatrists offer a senior citizen discount?