Sick Bastards at the AARP

Oh no you di-unt! I've got four months and five days so get off my freaking back.
Well, it happened. Or as my son might’ve said when he was about 6:  “So, how’d it go being an old lady?” 

I got the letter. You know which one I’m talking about. The AARP invitation.  Imagine my surprise when I got today’s mail. In with all the hip mail (letters from PETA, Macy’s ads, liberal political groups, and a singles dating agency whose mailing list I somehow got on about two years ago - what?) was an envelope with the letters A. A. R. and P. in the return address.   With my address on it! My house! And who was it addressed to? Me. Me! Yeah, I know

I had heard that the nanosecond you turn 50, an AARP membership letter magically appears in your mailbox. But give me a break. I’m only 49.  Somehow news that my hair was getting gray must’ve been leaked.  Or that the pouches under my eyes weren’t going anywhere. Or that I had thrown out my last strapless bra. Or that I was moving to Florida. In any case, there was some serious miscommunication happening over at Old People Headquarters in Boca Raton, and my name was put on the early bird list.

In the welcome letter, AARP CEO William D. Novelli tells me my membership will “make the most of life over 50.”  Of course, it doesn’t offer me a discount for joining while I’m still 49. It’s still going to cost me a whole $12.50 to get my senior discount at Old Country Buffet. 

Today I grieve. Tomorrow I stop grieving, partly because I can’t afford a big crease in my forehead. Tomorrow I go get my hair dyed.