I am 64 years old. I am not exactly certain what that means.
Medicare–Part A, what to do about Part B? Part D? If I do nothing about the parts, what happens then?
I have received a medicare card, though it is only a slightly-larger-than-business-card sized piece of paper. Much like my original social security card, which I have not seen in nearly 40 years. I had expected something sturdy, shiny, like my Sally Beauty Supply card.
Will being of age to have a Medicare card mean that I get to be treated like I am a child: in a louder-than-usual voice, will someone ask, sighing, as if preparing for a protracted battle, “Ma’am, do you have your Medicare card?” While I have not been thus queried (not until November), I have witnessed the querying.
Given that we become the way we are treated (well, sometimes), I am on guard against becoming the woman who spends 10 minutes rifling though her purse, all the time talking to no one in particular, “I know I had it in here. It’s in here. I never take it out.” (Never mind. That’s me rummaging for my cell phone, debit card, jump drive, mirror, nail file, keys, tweezer–but not usually as a line forms behind me). At any rate, I refuse to become a codger, a coot, a fuddy-duddy. A character I don’t mind, as in “Girl, you are a character.”
My Medicare card, however, will validate me. Often when I checkout at a commercial establishment, I inquire, “Senior discount?” Sometimes I get the suck-teeth, “thhhht”, sometimes a raised eyebrow, and the occasional, “You don’t look that old.” I offer to show my driver’s license. It is always refused as in “Oh no, it’s not necessary” followed by a barely audible, “You just don’t look that old.”
“Sixty-four,” I offer proudly. Just to hear “Really?! You don’t look that old.” But the bladder reminds me that I am. I remain poised.
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