I resist. I’m eligible for membership in what once was known as the American Association of Retired Persons, but is now simply known as AARP. I am eligible and I’ve resisted the tons of applications and solicitations AARP has sent me both before my 55th birthday and after. I’ve tossed every single one of them into the garbage.
But I may have changed my mind. Is it so bad to save a few bucks by playing the age card?
Who’d have thought I can save ten bucks on a $37.00 lift ticket? I would’ve learned this little gem of information if I would’ve used my AARP-authorized eyes to read the fine print: “Over 55-$10.00 off”. Hell, I was over 55 last year but, given my poor attention span and even worse vision, I didn’t notice the fine print then and sure didn’t see it this year until my much younger (Denfeld Class of ’75) spouse read it while paying for her lift ticket.
“Hey, Hon,” Rene’ said as I helped her fold her ticket over a wire wicket affixed to her jacket, “did you know you get a $10.00 discount if you’re over 55?”
“No way.”
“Yep.”
Before I could stop her from embarrassing me, Rene’ caught the attention of the salesclerk who’d waited on us.
“He didn’t get his senior citizen discount.”
“He didn’t ask for one,” the woman said wearily.
“Let’s just chalk it up to a learning experience,” I urged, turning my wife gently by the elbow. “Good information to know for the next time we’re here.”
Thankfully, Rene’ followed my lead (unlike when we dance) and we got the hell out of there with our dignity.
Later, on the ski lift, as the cable lifted the chair I was riding on above the aspen, maple, white pine, and cedar forest, my head turned to watch the lights of Duluth ignite as the sun sank behind the hills above town, a sense of acceptance overwhelmed me.
Hell, I thought. I’m in good health. My legs, for my first time out, are doing fine. I haven’t biffed. I wear my helmet and ski in control. I’ll likely be able to do this a long, long while. Maybe not as long as my step-dad’s pal, Wesley Neustal, who, at the tender young age of ninety, is still downhill skiing. Not just on flat little Spirit Mountain, but at Bridger Bowl, in Montana. I don’t know that I have Wesley’s athletic longevity. But maybe I can ski into my late seventies; another two decades away. Ten bucks a ticket for twenty years could add up to some real scratch.
By the time my skis touched snow at the top of Gandy Dancer, I was OK with being able to take advantage of senior pricing for skiers. But join AARP? I’m not quite there yet.
Peace.
Mark
