Carded

We've arrived safely in Mission, ready to spend five weeks in the RGV.

Actually, we're lucky to be here.

After our 200-mile drive we pulled into the park we placed our reservations with six months ago. While Paul unhooked the squirrel, I stepped inside the office to register. The lovely woman behind the counter put a stack of papers in front of me. Two of them required me to sign my name and attest that at least one of us was at least 55 years old. Just as I was ready to place my 52-year-old signature on the dotted line, the lady asked for my driver's license.

That's right. I was carded!

Unsure what to do at this point, I decided to speak the truth.

"We're 52," I said. "We didn't know!"

Those simple words threw the lovely lady behind the counter into a tailspin. She called for a manager. I imagined us spending tonight at the Walmart a mile or so down the road, all because we are underage!

The manager arrived with a smile and waited patiently for everyone to clear out of the office.

"When you made your reservation," she asked calmly "did we ask you how old you are?"

"Uh, no." I replied.

She swore me to secrecy and asked me to promise to tell anyone we meet that we are 55 years old. I agreed, and with that we had a place for the next five weeks.

Such is the life of an early retiree!

Now that we're all settled in to our home for the next five weeks, we're noticing we're a wee bit tired. Could it be the normal stress of a travel day? Maybe. Or, it could be something else, which Paul captured earlier this evening.

"I've aged three years today!"

Man, that'll really wear a person out!

And, whatever you do. Please, don't tell anybody!