What friggin' gall.
Such was my entirely reasonable response—well, I might have selected a more pungent adverb in the privacy of my outrage—when my dexterous, only occasionally arthritic fingers fished the postage-paid affront from my mailbox early last week.
Peering through my tri-focal lenses (but stylishly tinted in youthful aviator frames), I spotted the "S" word on the return address and ripped into it with rapidly gathering indignation.
"From: Division of Processing Remittance People's Benefit Services, Inc."
"Re: You are eligible, regardless of medical eligibility, income, employment/retirement status or your health, for the Senior Rx Discount Program."
I BEG YOUR (FRIGGIN') PARDON?
What did they just call me? Not that I have anything against seniors. My parents were seniors. God-willing, I expect to be one myself one day—but not this day, not for thousands of days to come. Gotta be a mistake. A fluke. A joke. A computer doing that file-foul-up voodoo that they do so well. After all, there are two other Steve Bornfelds I know of, an older cousin in California, and a Brooklyn dentist I've never met.
But no, it had my correct address and middle initial, even.
Let it go, said my cool-headed angel to my hotheaded demon. And I did, after a few more silent curses. Until 24 hours later. Same time. Same mailbox. Same insult—squared.
I stared unbelievingly at the familiar acronym in the upper left of the envelope, slit it open and read in bold-blue letters the friendliest message of pure horror I'd ever seen: "WELCOME TO AARP!" A detachable temporary membership card was below, to the right an official membership registration form for the American Association of Retired Persons.
If I'd had a walker, I'd have fallen over it.
I'm 48 years old, for Chrissakes!
A doctor with a white mask and a catcher's mitt welcomed me to the world, attested on a certificate next to an embossed seal that I joined the party on May 4, 1957, at Lebanon Hospital in the Bronx, New York, and slapped me on the ass. If there was fraud committed here, if I'm actually a 73-year-old woman from Terra Haute, I'm gonna track down that doc and slap his ass.
But I don't think so. I'm me. And I'm not a senior, God bless them. I did the math. Why can't they? In a teen-worshipping culture that compensates for that at the other end by proclaiming that "50 is the new 40," when did 48 become the new 65?
Yes, there's some salt amid the pepper in the beard and in the hair slowly losing ground to a bald spot that mocks me if my bathroom mirrors are aligned just so.
Yes, when I was a child and thought I would live forever, my parents were fond of telling me how incredibly fast time goes by, and a moment later I'm older than they were then.
Yes, I'm already the hip, young Weekly's most ancient full-time staffer. And I get the mumbly-grumblies when editing one writer's hip-hop reviews—the definition of the blind leading the sighted. Or asking another twentysomething scribe if Shove It Up Your Ass With a Machete is really a band name. Or confirming online that a DJ spells his name with three semicolons.
Yes, I grew up when the silliest band name was the Strawberry Alarm Clock ("Good Morning, Starshine," yeah!) and the freakiest DJ was Wolfman Jack.
Yes, when I wake up in the morning now, the amusing Billy Crystal line—Oyyyy, I'm making my father's noise!—isn't all that amusing.
Older than that I don't need to feel, but that doesn't make me old.
Sure, I know it's not personal—I'm just another stat on the ol' actuarial table, and the younger they enroll me, the more they make off me. Fine. And I'm all for discounts wherever I can find them, but I'm not ready to attach my name to anything that declares me a senior just yet.
Ironic, no? I was born into the second half of the baby boomers (1946-'64), a generation that invested its very soul in the notion of youth everlasting, if not in body (excepting the creepy Botox crowd), then in spirit. Yet here we are, lured by the promise of the golden years when we haven't yet reached sterling silver.
A recent New York magazine story revealed how high-school girls in the trendiest nightclubs are dating men in their 30s and 40s. They're so eager for grown-up status, the piece said, that they'd rather skip the entire college experience, traditionally the exciting bridge to the real world.
That's sad ... No, it's pathetic.
But in a media culture hurtling at light speed that rushes kids into adulthood, why not shove adults toward seniorhood, right?
Having heard the AARP siren song of "senior advantages" at 48, what will they offer me at 50? ... Never mind. I don't wanna know.
After a work-week-long funk and fury, I was still steamed at this psychological assault on my youth and vibrancy and vitality when I woke up last Saturday, before my back went out.