Well, I received a fairly severe deep tissue injury last night at our lovely local Perkins restaurant.  It was caused by a young twenty-something waitress named Renee.  Had I been able to see the injury coming I would have protected myself, but I was completely blindsided.

It is hard to tell how long it will take the injury to heal – it could be years.  Intensive therapy will be needed.  Surgery may be required before it is all said and done.

The injury occurred when Renee approached the table where Cheyenne, Mike and me were sitting and upon taking our orders asked me if I wanted to order off the senior (55+) menu.  And in an instant, the forceful blow was delivered and the softest of all my tissue – my ego – took a beating unlike it has ever experienced before.  It was brutal – I literally saw stars…indeed, the pain of the blow brought tears to my eyes.

The senior menu Renee??  THE SENIOR MENU??!!  Why not just poke me in the eye with a fork??  ARRRGGGH!!! How could you ask me that?

After Renee slinked away, Mike tried to soften the blow by offering that perhaps Renee was new and was just learning the ropes (what ropes are those exactly Michael…the ropes wherein one should never suggest that someone is old enough to order off the 55+ menu unless they know to a moral certainty that the person is older than 55…isn’t that common life knowledge?!).  Nice try boyfriend, but nothing eases the blow of such a wound.  Tell me a hundred times that I look young for my age and the world is filled with sunshine, lollipops and roses, but one query about the senior menu and suddenly all that remains is a dark, ominous mushroom cloud.

I don’t think I will ever be able to eat at a Perkins restaurant again, even after years of successful therapy.  Some injuries are lifelong and now that I have PTSD (Post Traumatic SENIOR Disorder) I will have to be more careful about where I eat to avoid triggering an episode.  From here on out look for me at Chuck E. Cheese.  I’d rather spend time with a giant creepy mouse and his gang of dysfunctional friends in the ball bin until I am 90 than face another ego injury like that. 

And for the record…90 is 38 years away for me…just in case you were confusing me with a SENIOR.  Folks in the new forty know that the years between 50 and 55 matter – few folks are running toward the double nickels gleefully counting the days until they can get their senior discount; indeed, most are hanging on to 50 for dear life once they realize they are but a hop, skip and a jump away from the senior designation.  Would someone please share that information with Renee? 

I hope that in the sharing of my experience I will be able to help save others from like injuries.  If I can save even one ego from a similar blow I will feel that my suffering was not in vain (or my suffering was not because I was vain – whatever). 😉

Day eight hundred and thirty-one of the new forty – obla di obla da

Ms. C

8 Responses

  1. stormchaser

    OMG When I used to work at Dairy Queen, I never asked about the senior discount unless they were little old people coming in with a cane.

    You can’t tell by looking at someone how old they are! My mom had a friend in highschool that was balding and had silver hair his senior year! (Yeah, VERY premature!)

  2. Paul E. Cline

    I am a Registered Nurse. I learned one very valuable lesson early on in my career: never ask a woman when she is due unless she is disrobed and you are delivering the head.

    I was chatting with a young gal in triage (I worked in the Emergency Department) who was very rotund, but mostly in front. I asked her when she was due.

    “Six months ago” she replied.

    I wanted to die. I apologized profusely but she was a good sport: “the truth hurts.”

    Never, ever, again; maybe not even when its medically necessary.

  3. Amy

    I have been asked, TWICE, when I was due. So hurtful and wounding to the soul. NEVER, NEVER, NEVER as a woman this!!

  4. Barbara

    If you’re seriously considering surgery and/or therapy, I have one word of advice: DON’T! We’ve all seen the disastrous results of celeb plastic surgery, and therapy could mess up the dipsy-ness we need and love.
    For possible future attacks, carry business cards from an eye doctor to hand the offender–with a look of total sympathy.

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