This is one of those milestone years in my life.

Or perhaps, since I live in Canada, I should call it a kilometrestone year.

Whatever the unit of measurement, I have officially entered my seventies.

Recently, Joy went to our local recreation centre to renew our swimming passes. Upon her return she announced that I had received a promotion.

Apparently, I am now a Super Senior.

I must admit, I rather like the sound of that.

For starters, it means my swimming pass costs significantly less than it did last year. There are certain advantages to growing older, and discounted admission ranks surprisingly high on the list.

Joy was less impressed.

She pointed out that I use considerably more water than she does.

This is difficult to dispute.

I am larger than she is.

I occupy more pool space.

I create a larger wake.

I swim farther.

In terms of sheer aquatic consumption, she may have a point.

Yet somehow I receive the discount.

“It isn’t fair,” she informed me.

I am still trying to recover from the guilt.

What intrigues me most, however, is the title itself.

Super Senior.

The word senior I understand.

The word super raises expectations.

If I am now a Super Senior, surely certain benefits and responsibilities accompany the designation.

Do I receive superpowers?

Am I now capable of leaping tall footstools in a single bound while racing to the bathroom?

Can I move faster than a speeding bullet once I have successfully extracted myself from my recliner?

Am I more powerful than a locomotive, provided the locomotive is travelling uphill and stopping frequently for coffee?

Should I possess X-ray vision? If so, why am I still unable to locate my reading glasses when they are sitting on top of my head?

These are important questions.

I have begun looking for evidence of my newfound abilities.

So far, I have discovered only one.

I can now identify weather changes by listening carefully to my knees.

This talent appears to improve with age.

I have also noticed an increased appreciation for afternoon naps.

I intend to ask my doctor whether Super Seniors qualify for a formal prescription.

It would be useful to have medical documentation.

“Sorry, I can’t help this afternoon. Doctor’s orders. I am required to nap between 1:00 and 2:30.”

There is one final matter to consider.

Every superhero needs a costume.

Batman has his cape.

Superman has his cape.

Even Little Red Riding Hood had a cape.

I think it may be time to get out the sewing machine and create one of my own.

Perhaps something tasteful.

Nothing too flashy.

A modest cape with a large “SS” emblazoned across the chest.

On second thought, perhaps not.

History has not always been kind to people wearing “SS” insignia.

Maybe I’ll simply continue swimming and quietly enjoy the discount.

After all, every superhero needs a secret identity.

Looking back from my eighty-third year, I can only smile at my younger self. At seventy I thought becoming a Super Senior was noteworthy. Little did I know there were still several levels left to unlock.

GRB