Being offered a seat on the bus is a perk that comes with age. It’s also a pain.
ALICE LUKACS, Freelance, Published: Monday, June 04, 2007, © The Gazette (Montreal) 2007

Years ago, my diplomatic boss addressed a co-worker at a meeting as “the young lady.” I was smiling to myself, as this woman must have been close to, or over, 50 – quite “old” to my thirtysomething mind. Some “young lady”!

Forty-odd years later, I thought of this incident when, as I stood in line at the supermarket check-out, a man brushed past me, exclaiming, “Excuse me, young lady!” I took it as a certain sign that I was getting, well, on in years.

There are other reminders. I hate boarding a bus or the metro. I am happy when I can find an empty seat on my own, but that rarely happens. As soon as I step on a crowded bus, someone jumps up and offers me their seat. It seems there is a certain discrepancy between what I see in the mirror at home and what others see. I feel there is an invisible “Senior” tag hanging around my neck.

It used to be that I was an anonymous passenger. Now I feel as though my privacy is invaded and I am being categorized. Of course, the only thing worse is to clamber onto a crowded bus and find that I have to stand all the way.

My fellow-senior friends have rebuked me for my attitude, saying I should be grateful when someone offers me a seat. I have taken their advice and, though still upset, display a charming smile and utter a grateful “thank you” on every occasion.

The funniest incident in this “musical chairs” routine happened one day when, as I was boarding the bus, a grey-haired woman, whom I judged to be not much younger than I, offered me her seat. How depressing, I thought – but then someone else jumped up to offer her a seat.

Maybe we seniors should carry our birth certificates with us, I thought, so that we could compare seniorities to determine who should have priority when it comes to a seat on the bus.

But sometimes even documents can trigger remarks about seniority, as I found out on a recent visit to the passport office.

At the door, I was asked to hand over my Canadian citizenship certificate to the officer on duty.

As an immigrant, I never thought my citizenship card held any data of special interest. The immigration officer, however, thought otherwise. “1958!” he exclaimed, looking at my card. “You became a Canadian citizen in 1958? That was a long time ago!”

He made it sound as if I was of pre-Confederation vintage. Even the passport office is not safe anymore.

Like all seniors, I enjoy the perks, the discounts that come from being a Golden Ager. But, please, do I have to be identified at a glance as entitled to a senior discount by the cashier at the pharmacy, at the movie theatre, or the bus depot? I beg you, dear cashier, look at me and don’t put me right away in the senior group! Let me pronounce the “S” word! Make my day!

I must say I also enjoy the senior privilege of “pre-boarding” at the railway station. Although I carried “pre-boarding”a bit too far at the bus terminus when I suggested to a surprised senior friend that we go to the head of the long line waiting for the bus. Sadly, or happily, we got away with it, too!

Now, as a self-respecting senior, I face the day mentally braced against the well-meaning younger generation. I have one request: Please, just once, don’t remind me that I am getting older. Let me enjoy the illusion that I appear on the outside just as I feel on the inside – young, like everybody else!

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