I am standing in line at the movie theater on a hot and sticky afternoon.

I have ventured out on this lazy summer day because, finally, there is a movie I want to see badly enough to shed my pajama pants, put on makeup and fork out $6.50 plus popcorn and drink. My husband, who has agreed to come along even though the film is a clearly a chick flick (because it’s this or yard work, and anything competing with yard work on a 90-degree day always wins), is parking the car.

Having chosen the slower of the two lines (naturally), I watch as a woman in the other row who looks familiar but whose face I cannot place (naturally), approaches the window and says loudly, “Two seniors for ‘The Devil Wears Prada.'”

That’s funny, I think. She doesn’t look like a senior. She’s petite and fit and sportily dressed. A cute little ponytail stylishly holds back her highlighted brown hair. Her timbre belies the vocal cords of an elderly person. She must be working the system. Trying to save a buck. Some people have no pride. I shoot her a disapproving look as she walks by, tickets in hand.

Moments later, I am at the window, face-to-face with a young man I deem to be 17 years of age. Tops.

“Two for ‘Devil Wears Prada,'” I say.

“Two seniors for ‘Prada,'” he says cheerfully, without taking even a beat for deliberation. “That’ll be 10 dollars.”

Wait a minute, I think. Wait just a blankety-blank minute! I didn’t ask for the senior discount, you unperceptive little punk! I’ve lost 15 pounds since the last time I was here, for crying out loud! Don’t you see this shirt I’m wearing? It’s from the Gap, dude. The Gap!! And what about my pants? Maybe you can’t see them from your perch in that cage, but I’ll have you know these are boot-cut khakis from Old Navy. How many seniors do you know who buy boot cut? And look at my face! What are you, blind? I’m wearing age-defying serum AND de-puffing eye gel. Are you trying to tell me my ridiculously expensive skin care regimen isn’t working, you pimple-faced little Eddie Haskell?!

It’s the hair, I think. It’s got to be the hair. Why did I ever stop coloring it last year? All I wanted to do was save some money. Those highlights and lowlights cost a bloody fortune. More than $500 a year! I had tuitions to pay. And besides, my kids claim my natural white color is cool. Like Grandpa’s.

And I remember the days when all I wanted in life was to be older than I really was. The youngest in my grade, I was constantly “cheating up” – fibbing about my age to get my first job at Hickory Farms (although why I lied for the privilege of cutting cheese, I’ll never know), exaggerating my maturity to attract college-aged boys, using a friend’s older sister’s ID to get into the R-rated movie, “The Exorcist” (a ploy that went horribly wrong when the ticket-taker turned out to be the same friend’s next-door neighbor : what were the odds?).

Should I whip out my ID now and prove to the toddler behind the window that I am years, if not a full decade, too young to be afforded this discourteous discount? Should I demand he look again at my face and happenin’ wardrobe and recant his insulting initial assessment?

My mind stews in this narcissistic dilemma, but the line behind me is long. People are anxious to get into their refrigerated theaters for 10 minutes of commercials, four previews and the feature presentation. And most of them, it occurs to me, will pay full price.

Oh well, I decide. Choose your battles.

I open my wallet to retrieve a 10-spot. A strange white-haired woman smiles up at me from my driver’s license. Next to her are three plastic cards: AARP membership, prescription co-pay and a Chico’s Passport card. I sigh and pay the 17-year-old the money. He hands me the tickets and says, “Enjoy the show, ma’am.”

Just then, my husband shows up, and I give him his ticket.

“You get the popcorn, and I’ll go on in,” I say. “I’ll be down in those seats that don’t hurt my back but not so close that we can’t hear. Oh, and remember, no salt and very lightly buttered.”