Am I REALLY That Old?

Dear AARP,

My postman just delivered the mail; a few bills, a dental cleaning reminder, hub’s Professional Mariner magazine, my White House Black Market catalogue, and this:

AARP

AARP: American Association of Retired Persons.

I’m one thousand billion percent sure that you have the wrong address.

You must have made a mistake. A belated April Fool’s Day joke, perhaps?

This envelope must belong to someone else. Here. You can have it back.

There is no way this was meant for me. No Way. I’m shaking my head. No. Way.

If you know to whom this was supposed to be delivered, please let me know and I’ll forward it to the proper address.

I’m not that old. Am I? What? I AM?

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Say it ain’t so. Pull-eez.

My MOM belonged to AARP. My mom was OLD. I am not OLD. How did this happen? When did I get old enough to be a card-carrying member of AARP?

And how did you know? I thought it was my own little secret.

Was it my hands that gave me away? They say you can always tell your age by your hands. Was that it? The skin’s very thin there, not so hydrated. Or was it those little brown spots that are popping up everywhere? Now what did my mom call them? Liver spots? LIVER spots? WTF? Remember Carter’s Little Liver Pills? I do, I mean I don’t. No, I don’t remember that at all. Ya wanna know why? I’m not OLD enough.

Is this payback for when I was so smug that I thought I would never ever in a million years have a single hair on my chinny chin chin – and now I have a 10x magnifying glass so that I can hunt and destroy every single rogue hair that shouldn’t be there?

What? I can’t hear you. Did my son put you up to this?

Is this his way of retaliating because I’d never allow him to eat the cereal that all his friends ate? No Cocoa Puffs or Captain Crunch for my little boy. Poor kid. I knew it was going to cause him emotional trauma one day.

Or maybe it was the time I put brussel sprouts and cauliflower in his smoothie. All right, all right, I admit it. Some vegetables can’t be disguised no matter how hard you try. I’m sorry. Bad mommy.  Oh, I bet I know why you did this to me. Is it because I embarrassed you last year at commencement when I screamed “That’s my Angel Boy!” so loud that I was surrounded by security guards? (True story.)

Look, I still wear skinny jeans, OK? I work out at the gym five days a week. Fifty-ahem-eixxxxght is the new twenty-five, right? Damn right it is.

So maybe it’s been a few moons ago since I needed to say, “it’s that time of the month” – THAT ship has sailed, but I still have them in the bathroom cupboard just in case. I mean, stranger things have happened. Whatever. I’m prepared, that’s all. Prepared.

I’m gonna put on my spectacles, my reading glasses, so I can see the fine print.

Hmmm, a free tote bag with membership? Maybe it doesn’t sound so bad after all…

Sincerely yours,

Princess Rosebud

PS. My birthday’s actually the 14th, not the 17th, but thanks for that – — I’m now three days younger!

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