I’ve always looked older than my age, which I considered an advantage. At 18, I beat my 21-year-old friends from the door to the barstool because the bouncer waved me through but held them back until they produced ID. In jobs where people who worked for me were more experienced, it eased their irritation at being managed by someone with less time when they thought I was ten years older. Salespeople were less inclined to tag me as a gullible novice when I would have been an easy mark.

It produced some chuckles. I’ve been mistaken as a parent of kids I would have had to father in middle school, labeled a grandfather long before it would have been possible, and there is the ridiculous error that still makes my wife and I laugh. A man met me a few days after meeting her and connecting the last name but not knowing we were married, proceeded to tell me what a lovely woman my daughter was. She’s two months younger than me.

Even though I’ve reached a point where my physical appearance and life's calendar are more in line, people are still tacking years on me. I understand. My dark brown hair, where it still hangs on, is now a mixture of grays. A dark, reddish beard and mustache have grown completely gray and white, and my laugh lines are canals. Poor posture gives me a slight stoop, and if I’m tired, years of jogging and two arthroscopic surgeries play out in a shuffle.   

In your sixties, you begin to reap the rewards of aging—social security benefits and Medicare at 65 and discounts with many businesses. I still have a few years to go, but I have to explain I don't qualify almost every day. Grocery stores, restaurants, specialty shops, and some services. They all try to give me a break. Even the Washington state toll workers wanted to take a couple of bucks off my ferry rides.

Most people smile and accept my polite decline. But there are some who don’t. Like the grocery store cashier who asked me if I was a senior, then, in a voice coated in disbelief, mocked my answer.

“No?” she said and laughed, thinking I was trying to be funny. “No,” I said and didn’t because I wasn’t.

I should probably be less sensitive to the ask. The label “senior” does designate a level of achievement. It’s certainly not the equivalent of military service but being healthy and active and able to enjoy life in later years is an accomplishment. And being asked if I qualify for a discount is just a reminder of more joys to come.

Today, when I go to the store and they want to know if I’m a senior, I’m going to thank them for asking. But first I have to find my wallet.