Let it be known you are reading words written by an old person. At least that’s how our government now defines me since I’ve reached the ripe old age to receive Medicare. Send in the marching band, let the trumpets blare. Yours truly is 65!Now don’t get me wrong; I don’t feel an iota different than I did 10 days ago, back when I was 64. But being long in the tooth does have its perks:
I now notice when one is referred to as ma’am (no longer miss), one receives a different sort of attention. The kind that says, “Do you need help with that, ma’am?” And, “Here, let me do that for you, ma’am.” Turns out they’re happy to help. It’s one of the more pleasant aspects of being on the road to decrepitness.
It’s official; I’m old. But that’s only according to AARP.
For those of you with no clue what AARP means, you’re obviously not one of “us.” You don’t yet have a bathroom drawer loaded with hair coloring and you’re able, or more importantly, willing, to look into a magnifying mirror without wanting to lose your lunch. So if you’re in that group, AARP means American Association of Retired Persons.I’m now an official card carrying member of this club, one I never particularly yearned to be part of. But since hitting the big 6-0 Friday, I’m closing in on being at peace with what put me in this prestigious group; things like gray hair, wrinkles and occasional aches and pains.
The most important criteria for membership in AARP is simple: live long enough and they beg you to join. No tests are taken. You also don’t need a sponsor vouching that you aren’t a lunatic who will eat all the chocolate chip cookies at the meetings. Do they have meetings? I guess I’ll find out. If so, they better have cookies. Continue reading