What’s next? A spot in assisted living?
Oh no, way worse: a birthday greeting from the AARP. That’s right; I returned from Dr. Dupree’s still crying over the bright blue Peepers stuffed in my pocketbook only to discover I needed them to read my mail. There, placed squarely in the center of the kitchen table by the thoughtful old man I married (and topped off by a jumbo-sized bottle of Geritol he just couldn’t resist buying his child bride), was a postcard and introductory issue of the one publication no one willingly subscribes to: AARP Magazine. Who’s on the cover? Jack Nicholson. Like the prospect of turning fifty isn’t frightening enough.
Of course the really scary thing is that I actually don’t hit the big five-oh for…awhile. (You thought I’d tell, didn’t you? I bet you thought the Giants would hand the Pats a perfect season, too.) And yet all this stuff is happening now.
Wrinkles. Readers. Late night hot flashes that leave me so soaked Mr. Geritol swears it’s like sleeping with a sopping wet sponge. Bizarre life insurance solicitations that scream “Don’t Leave Your Loved Ones in the Lurch!” and slick, four-color brochures pitching gated golf course communities (with on-site nursing care, no less) make me wonder: is the universe trying to tell me something?
And if it is, maybe I should simply go deaf. It works when my husband’s moaning about the Mastercard bill, so it should do the trick on the bullies from the AARP.
They can’t have me. Not now, and not in the future. I don’t care if they send me free issues, vitamin samples, or a complimentary Prada purse. (Please don’t send a Prada purse. Please don’t send a Prada purse.)
No, I’ll never capitulate, not even to couture. Unless of course they come across with a pair of Blahnik’s. And then my birthday will really mean Jack. Not to mention Manolo.
