|Please bow your head for a moment of silence . . . today I registered for Medicare. I don’t know which was worse, knowing I would be sixty-five in three months or having to prove it in public. |
Not that I need a reminder of how old I am, mind you. The last few months I’ve gotten more notices for supplemental medical policies and cremation coupons than Taylor Swift gets fan mail in a year.
When I left for the Social Security office my husband said, "Cheer up, Hon. In my eyes you're still foxy. But don’t forget to tell them what brand of hair dye you use when you fill out the form . . . haha!”
My appointment was right after my exercise class, so I arrived wearing spandex work-out togs and cross training shoes. I breezed into the waiting room, imagining that everyone would look up and wonder what a hot babe like me was doing in a place like that. Nobody did. I took a seat and waited my turn.
I eyed the people around me, a sea of gray hair and canes, and started to get depressed. Things seemed brighter when I noticed one woman dressed to look younger. Unfortunately, she didn’t quite succeed. The muffin-top bulging out above her hipster jeans ruined it for her . . . but at least she'd tried.
More elders poured in and my depression deepened as I realized these were my peers. Just when I was about to search for local plastic surgeons on my smartphone, they called my name.
I expected the clerk to gasp in disbelief when she saw me and say, “Oh, no! There must be some mistake. You couldn’t possibly be 65!” She didn’t.
I handed her my birth certificate and driver’s license. She never glanced up to see if I was really me. I guess she figured nobody would admit they were old enough to sign up for Medicare, unless they really were. After a few minutes, Miss Personality said in a deadpan voice, “Expect your card in thirty-to-sixty days. Next.”
It was all over. I was official. In a few weeks, I would be in possession of a card that would declare to the world the undisputed fact that I was a senior citizen. Determined to look on the bright side, I left the office with head held high and a bounce in my athletic shoes. If I hurried, I could catch the senior movie matinee and then enjoy the Early Bird dinner special at my favorite restaurant.
Yes, there definitely were some benefits to becoming a silver fox after all.
About the Author:
Marcia Smart lives in beautiful Southern California. By day, she's an interior decorator, and by night, has designs on becoming a regular blogging humorist. "Mimi" to five granddaughters, wife to a retired left-handed science teacher, and old enough to know better but too young to resist, she finds plenty of fodder to keep her brain churning with ideas for tickling everyone's funny-bone.