A Tale of Aging Amusement
The Trader Joe Takeaway
Seldom do I notice odd (or any) looks in my direction from strangers, probably because I’ve become immune to outside opinions over the years. But this day, the look I received was impossible to ignore.
My husband and I had swooped into Trader Joe’s Saturday afternoon to grab a few items, one of which was wine. When we approached the register, the cashier immediately began making small talk about our choices. Luckily, there wasn’t anything I would consider embarrassing in the cart. However, I imagine that his method of a conversation starter will become uncomfortable quickly one day!
Anyway, he commended our choice of frozen fried rice by confessing it was the best in the store. Then commented on how delicious the triple ginger cookies are as another cashier put them into the fancy Trader Joe’s plastic tote. The last of the items was the three bottles of wine. As the cashier swiped the first bottle across the scanner, he looked at me and requested my ID while toggling his gaze between my husband and me.
This is not the first time I’ve been ID’ed for alcohol but the request has become less frequent over the years. I assure you I look at least twenty-one, twenty-seven, even thirty-seven. Usually, requesting identification for my age group is a formality the newbies are accustomed to following through on, and if I had to guess, I’d say this was his first week on the job.
I am already waiting with my hand perched on my wallet to pull out my debit card to complete the transaction. So, I filed through the other pocket, located my ID, and handed it to the young cashier.
As he scanned my ID, his eyebrows stretched for his hairline just before his eyes widened in amazement. I looked back at my husband, confused with a hint of irritation, while his facial response conveyed amusement in return. The cashier handed my ID back and shook his head as he scanned two more bottles of wine. Again, I look at my husband. This time, he responded with a shrug of the shoulder.
Suddenly the cashier confessed, “I wasn’t expecting that!” Before I knew it, I had questioned his comment. With a bewildered look, he stumbled through his reply. “Your age! The nineties! I expected the nineties!” — Uh, yeah. Wow! I gave this a quick thought and determined the options. I’ve either aged fantastically well for ninety or else I’ve aged pretty shittily to only be in my twenties. I ran with the latter. I laughed at his claim and thanked him for his apparent lack of awareness, and went on to inform him that my son was born in the nineteen-nineties. However, this prompted him to divulge that his sisters were born in the nineties, but he “didn’t make it here until 2002.”
The employee who was placing items in the bag appeared to be in disbelief, “2002??? You weren’t born until 2002?” The cashier admitted that he gets that all the time. “People either think I’m seventeen or twenty-four. Never my correct age though.” I did the math; he is/will be 19 this year!
This interaction made me think about how I visualize myself and the aging process I’ve witnessed within myself, my husband, and others so far. It appears that I do not give equal consideration across the lines. I can identify the grace of aging through others, but I do not immediately see it within myself.
When I was nineteen, I saw age differently than I do today. Granted that was a quarter of a decade ago. But, now, fifty-five, sixty(+) would describe many of the people nearest and dearest to my heart! I’m lagging behind them a bit, but I’m catching up quickly.
My glistening grey hair is spreading throughout the reddish-brown that once dominated the prime real estate. It has spread like weeds in an unkempt garden, while my forehead creases scream to passersby of years filled with angst and disgust.
What I can only assume is the beginning of jowls have set up shop. Just waiting for the few extra pounds perimenopause promises to provide in the next few months. No matter how many times I pull and tug the skin taut, it relaxes like a hippie on the beach in May. But I digress.
We are our own worst critics, as cliche as that saying may be. We view ourselves through a glass of tainted measurements. What we can do, could do, should do, might do, need to do! All biased and judgemental from yesteryear. Instead of using our eyes to see ourselves in the here and now.
This young cashier was able to see something within me that I did not at that moment! Namely, Youth! Generally, it’s those older than ourselves that remind us to cherish the youth we have, but this day it was the nineteen-year-old cashier that didn’t think I would be smart enough to have someone else buy my booze if I was in fact, underage!