The Secret Senior Discount

By Jane Farrell

The first time I witnessed a secret senior discount was about ten years ago, when my brother-in-law stepped up to a fast-food counter and said, “One senior coffee.” I looked at the menu board, but the discount wasn’t up there.

“How did you know?” I asked him. “Everybody knows,” he said, as if there were some senior underground passing along fast-food secrets that would save you 25 cents per coffee. Which is not inconsiderable, come to think of it.

Laugh if you want to; it’s OK. When I reached senior status, I started getting hidden senior discounts myself. But here’s the thing: I didn’t even have to ask. The tactful servers offered me “the discount” all on their own. “Do you have grandkids?” said another server.  It took me a few seconds to realize he was subtly asking if I was old enough for The Discount.

And I was happy to say yes.

I still feel a little shy about asking for the senior coffee at that particular fast-food chain. I think that they may have trained its staff in the don’t ask, don’t tell school of serving.

What exactly constitutes a senior? Anywhere from 55 (usually in Arizona, which is senior heaven) to 65. Many places (movie theaters, thrift stores) put it squarely in the middle at 60.

Getting it is rewarding, but it comes at a price (so to speak). Once people give it to you without your even asking, you start to realize that you look a bit older than you’ve thought. My hair went gray in my 30s, and I’ve never colored it, thinking it made me look distinguished and serious. Now it just makes me look like someone who’s happy to score 10 percent off.

Somehow, though, I’m still in denial about being a senior. I don’t feel like one. I listen to the Rolling Stones, I wear Disney T shirts and I go to rock concerts (full disclosure: I actually went to just one this year and got tired of standing.)

The gap between feeling like a senior, and looking like one, can be big. Maybe it’s because we’re all boomers, and we grew up with the idea that we’d never have to really grow up, that we would be different from our parents, many of whom looked “old” at 45, with their sensible shoes and no-fuss hair.

We’re different, we tell ourselves. In some ways, yes, but not as much as we’d like to think. So there may be a bit of a sting the first time a server, or a movie-theater cashier, recognizes us for how old we are. But look on the bright side. From all those discounts, you can save a fair amount of money – enough, say, to buy, say, a CD by the Rolling Stones, who are now in their 70s.

I’ll bet they never have to ask for the discount, either. It’s a comforting thought.