For nearly a decade, AARP has hounded me to join its ranks.
Always, I refused.
I wasn’t old, I wasn’t retired, I wasn’t seeing the point.
But, finally, now that I am retired, I gave in to their constant entreaties and I smacked down $16 and waited for that first magazine which would point out all the wonderful things about being retired.
That’s not what I got.
In this first issue as an official member, I was able to read in detail how I could figure out if I was dying from some dread disease.
If I couldn’t recognize a picture of Madonna, I might be suffering from dementia. Well, when I saw Madonna on the Grammys, I wasn’t sure it was her. She looks different every time I see her and her voice is not so memorable that I can just pick out of a crowd of other female voices. In the magazine, she looked a lot like Cameron Diaz to me.
They also quizzed me about Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s and the likelihood of future disabilities if I can’t open a jar of jam.
I didn’t sign up with AARP to build a case of depression. I thought I was joining millions of other people in their 50s who refuse to believe they’re actually old and want to form a voting group to prove that we’ve got the power.
I was too discouraged to read the rest of the magazine so I threw it in with the recycling. Yes, now that we can recycle magazines, I’ve found a new cherished spot for the AARP magazine.
Now I’m going to go open a jar, look up Madonna online, and practice some memory exercises — if I can remember the website where I found them in the first place.