That’s what the little boy who was manning the checkout at my local grocery store said he called it when hordes of grannies and other assorted seniors swamped his duty station on senior discount day. I smiled and laughed as I swiped my card, wondering if the dear child (who can’t be much more than 18/19 himself, bless) realized he was talking to one.
A granny, that is. Thank fully not a senior. No, not quite yet. We might be knocking on the door but we have yet to cross the threshold. The granny thing, though, been doing that for awhile. (My oldest grand child just celebrated her sixteenth birthday). Mind you, I don’t look like a granny – certainly in no way resemble the grandma image I was raised with. While I’m not exactly a spring chicken any more, and certainly no longer possess the bod I had I was twenty, I think I actually look better than I did when I was in my thirties and forties (while I may have been twenty years younger, I was close to a hundred pounds heavier, and that’s a whole ‘nother story).
How does it go these days, forty is the new thirty and fifty is the new forty? Whatever, all I know is I’ve never felt better, still am pretty darned hot and have no plans to be fitted for a walker any time soon. Hell, I might even flirt with the odd thirty year old. (Okay, maybe not THIRTY, that is a little too young – forty, forty sounds like a reasonable base line. But if forty is the new thirty…).
Dang, I may have to think about this for a bit. Oh well, the sun is shining. Perhaps I’ll go out for a walk and watch the rich coots in their Mercedes and BMWs and Escalades check me out as they cruise past. Heh!