mistaken identity


Surely there has been some mistake…

Today’s mail brought a fat envelope containing “Your New Card!” I opened it and stared at my new AARP membership card. I believe it’s called “blinking disbelief”. Or, as my friend M-R down Sydney way would say, “Fuck me dead! This is appalling!”


AARP is the American Association of Retired Persons. Or, it used to be. Now they are just AARP. Pronounced “ARP”. (In Boston, it’s “AAAHP”.) No matter what they call themselves, everyone knows that AARP is the club for senior citizens who crave discounts and early-bird specials. “Milkheads” as my friend Jenn has called them since we were kids. The card should be delivered on a lace doily. With complimentary samples of Metamucil and Viagra. And a reminder to turn off the left-turn signal… and step on the f@ck!ng gas!

Just to set the record straight:

I did not enroll.

I am not retired. (Underemployed, but not retired.)

I don’t want to dine at 4:30pm. Cocktails still run to 8 o’clock.

I am deeply in denial that my age begins with a 5.

I am clinging to the marketing age group that still lumps me in with the 40-somethings.

I have nothing against old people. Some of my best friends are old people. Some of them are older than dirt. (And you know who you are.) (I hope.)

But. I. am. not. there. yet.


That felt good. Thanks for listening. If you took offense, please get out your quill and leave a comment. I’ll go look for my spectacles.

The End