I recently had a mini existential crisis in the self-checkout line at Kroger, a place where I imagine thousands of such dilemmas have occurred, from “But I typed in the produce code for red grapes, not green! Why can’t I get anything right?” to “No, I don’t have any coupons! What am I doing with my life?”
My crisis was a little bit different and thankfully did not involve screaming at the pleasant-voiced woman inside the U-Scan machine who just wants to ensure I didn’t leave any items under my cart.
Instead, as I swiped my box of croutons, a funny thing happened. My regular Kroger discount popped up on the screen, but so did an extra $0.12 reprieve. At first, I thought it was my lucky day. Then I saw why.
“Senior discount,” the screen read simply, guilelessly. Are there two more terrifying words in the English language? I blinked, disbelievingly. I checked my hands — wrinkle-free. My height — not diminishing yet. I hadn’t paid in change or used expired coupons. I also was pretty sure there was no hard candy in my purse.
I looked around for someone playing a trick or for an employee to take my indignant complaint. It would probably be the first time a customer had demanded a discount be revoked, but I was disturbed at being mistaken for someone aged enough to deserve reduced-price croutons. I wanted to exclaim, “I’m 21! Surely you meant ‘student,’ not ‘senior’!”
It’s incredibly depressing to be confronted with one’s mortality in the checkout line. I felt like I had stepped into a bad indie film, something with a faux-clever title like “Shelf Life.” Would some wise old employee appear to tell me that we are all always just “checking out”?
Though I eventually realized the discount was meant for my parents — whose Kroger card I was using — the blunder managed to cause a brief depression. For just a moment, before I realized all the decades that lie between me and senior citizenry, I felt inexplicably ... old. I sunk into self-pity, feeling closer than ever to the end of youth and the beginning of adulthood.
In case I’ve lost you, the metaphor here is discounted croutons = adulthood. You may have had a similar epiphany, thanks to a boring internship or an encounter with high schoolers. But for me, it was the croutons.
In life, we spend an inordinate amount of time figuring out what we’re too old for, cataloguing what we’ve grown out of or moved past. Growing up means setting your own arbitrary age limits for certain activities; at 12, you’re too old to sleep with a stuffed animal; at 14, you’re too old to listen to Mom; at 18, you’re too old for a curfew. I expect that after college, we realize we’re too old for Solo cups, Ramen noodles and streaking.
But perhaps instead of congratulating ourselves on our maturity, we should contemplate what we’re too young to do. After all, that’s what college is really about — escaping for four years to a Neverland without parents or rules, playing the Peter Pan card against the forces of time. Claiming again and again, with our fingers in our ears, “I don’t want to grow up.”
We are, for instance, far too young to be called “Ma’am” or “Sir,” even by well-meaning, well-mannered children. We are too young for high school reunions or for a radio station “retro hour” to be the songs of our childhood. We are too young to refer to Wednesday as “hump day,” to call the remote control a “clicker,” or to gripe about “kids these days!”
We are too young to know how to play bridge or to squint at restaurant menus. We are too young for the highlight of our day to be any of the following: finding donuts in the conference room, gathering around the watercooler to talk about last night’s episode of “CSI” or sinking into an armchair already imprinted with our butt shape.
We are too young to be tired before midnight or functional before noon. We are too young to be bewildered by new slang or new technology, which means: Twitter, I think you’re ridiculous but I will acknowledge you as part of my generation.
And even though there are perks to growing old — among them $0.12 off croutons and the license to yell at neighborhood kids — I think I’ll take social networking instead of Social Security for now. Plus, I’m so not ready to give up Ramen noodles.
Rebecca’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at r.marsh@cavalierdaily.com.
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