Senior Coffee, Anyone?

Where were you when you first recognized you were getting older?

We remember where we were for other significant moments, don’t we? I remember, for instance, where I was when I learned that President Kennedy has been assassinated: Ms. Speck’s second grade class room at Washington Elementary School, Altus, Oklahoma. I recall where I was when the Challenger went down: in my apartment in Louisville, Kentucky, working on a seminar paper for my doctoral requirements; and 9/11: driving down Prien Lake Road, Lake Charles, Louisiana, listening to the radio, intrigued by the unusual news about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. We remember where we were when those significant nation-altering events occurred.

But, what about getting older? Do you perchance remember where you were when you first realized that was happening? Were you at the optometrist office and learned you needed bifocals? Was it on your own driveway when your child outran you to the street? Or was at the pharmacy as you ordered cholesterol medication? Or was it at the college campus for your child’s orientation?

For me, it was a fast-food restaurant. I was on my way to a lunch meeting with my oldest daughter. Feeling drowsy, I stopped along the way for coffee in Danville, Kentucky. And then it happened: like Rip Van Winkle, I slumbered into a time warp, a twilight zone of somnambulation, and before I could process what was happening, I was at the order counter.

I requested a small cup of coffee. Simple enough. To my surprise, the young man at the counter said, “$.55.” I was thinking, “This is a good deal, $.55 for a cup of coffee. It must be on sale.” I stepped aside to receive my order, and then I heard the server announce in a voice loud enough to travel to Cincinnati, “SENIOR COFFEE!”

“Senior coffee?” I thought, “Me? You don’t mean me, do you?” I looked to my right and to my left. No senior guy to pick up this coffee. I had heard correctly. Like Socrates taking the hemlock, I stoically, without objecting, took the coffee. “Senior Coffee,” I mused, “surely not me; surely not yet.” But there it was in my hand, my coffee, my Senior Coffee.

The worst part was that the young man who took my order didn’t bother to ask. He assumed I was a senior. He didn’t say, “I know you’re probably much younger, and excuse my ignorance in asking such a young looking man as you, but I’m required to ask, so, do you get the Senior Citizen Discount?” No, it was as if I walked into that restaurant, suddenly grew a grey beard, donned an “I’ve been everywhere” traveling cap, put in a pair of hearing aids, and ordered my coffee, my Senior Coffee.

I stood there, slack-jawed, not knowing whether to give the coffee back, explaining that this was a case of mistaken identity, offering to pay the regular price for a small cup of coffee, laughing at the naiveté of the young man who took the order--- a youngster who obviously couldn’t tell that I can do a hundred push-ups, run on my elliptical trainer for thirty minutes, work ten hours a day, and most obviously, (can’t you see?!) quite obviously---a young man who couldn’t manage to recognize that I have a full eight months, (that’s 240 days or 5,760 hours) before I am considered by any standard a senior citizen!

In a split second, I decided to leave it alone. It didn’t matter. I smiled and walked away, sipping my coffee, my Senior Coffee. And to my surprise, I liked the flavor.

So then, fully awake, I could see it clearly: I’ll take the senior coffee…savor each sip...and change the world, “old” as I am.

David B. Whitlock , Ph.D. (www.davidbwhitlock.com) is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact him at doctordavid@windstream.net