On the beaten path

The other day I found their invitation to join in the mail. They had a card already made up with my name on it, and if I sent in the $12.50 dues, they’d replace it with an official membership card, which endows me with all the rights and privileges afforded the silver-haired set.

The only problem is, I’m not old enough to be in the AARP, so if I were to pony up and pay the dues, any time I’d flash that card I’d be getting benefits under false pretenses. I’d also be adding a few years on my age, and although I have no problem admitting I’m 47, I certainly have a problem admitting I’m three years older before I cross that threshold for real.

I have to admit, I still get a charge out of being proofed when buying wine, only to find out some establishments proof everyone as a matter of course. This last time I told the zygote proofing me that she didn’t have to burst my momentary bubble by telling me they proof everyone. I just wanted to drink in the intoxicating feeling of being flattered, even if it was short-lived and unearned.

I did not feel flattered or intoxicated at being asked to join an association for the retired set. I felt I might want to get intoxicated, but that’s not the same thing.

Unlike a lot of my contemporaries, I still have young children at home, one of whom is a very active 2-year-old. How can I be a card-carrying member of the AARP when I’m still carrying a diaper bag, and no, it’s not for Depends.

The AARP is a great organization that lobbies hard for its members and provides great member benefits. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll probably sign up when the time comes, if only to get better rates at hotels.

But seeing those initials with my name after them is hard to swallow, especially when my 2-year-old is running around underfoot. The organization would do better to wait until I was reaching my 60th birthday and then invite me to join as a 50-year-old.

That’s flattery I could sink my false teeth into.