When I was kid, I loved mail. Mail was birthday cards, copies of the “Weekly Reader,” postcards from Grandma’s vacation and the X-Ray Specs I’d ordered from the back pages of a Superman comic book.
Then came adulthood. No more X-Ray Specs. No more birthday cards. No more “Weekly Reader.”
Instead, I got offers from lenders enticing me to spend money I didn’t have and bills from creditors demanding I pay back money I’d spent already.
Mail was no longer cause for celebration.
But like every reluctant grownup, I dealt with it and moved on. I figured the worst was over.
I figured wrong.
My mail in recent months makes bills and credit card offers seem like party invitations by comparison.
I know why this is happening. I’m approaching a certain … age. A decade marker that separates the kiddies from the geezers. Come November 26, I will be landing firmly on the McDonald’s Senior Discount side of that line.
My mail reflects this fact.
Last week, for instance, I received an offer for financing on a “Hoveround,” a battery-powered scooter that’s supposed to help transport my decrepit, wrinkly self down to the corner store for my weekly purchase of Maalox, T.V. Guide and lottery tickets.
Mind you, this offer arrived three days after I completed an 80-mile bicycle tour along the Leelanau Penninsula. I may be old and tubby, but when I’m ready for a Hoveround, jerk-faces, I’ll call YOU!
Likewise, I’m not interested in any fancy refinance deals in which some mortgage company gets my home when I croak. I’ve dealt with too many banks and don’t trust ‘em not to kill me in my sleep in order to collect the house, should I live too long to suit them.
And if I get one more “offer” from the AARP, I’m going to track down the young kid in charge of sending out the mailers and beat him senseless, just to prove I still can. Maybe they’ll take the hint after that.
The final mailbox insult came in yesterday’s post. It was one of those sneaky, little insurance company mailers that looks for all the world like a bill for something I’ve already purchased.
They try to pull this stuff because old codgers (like me) aren’t supposed to be able to remember anything. We’re (apparently) easily confused and therefore likely to just send money.
It’s insulting, is what it is. But not as insulting as the “Family Keepsake” included in the envelope.
Said “keepsake” is nothing but a sheet of paper upon which to list your next-of-kin, an abbreviated genealogical history, and your “funeral and burial arrangements.”
This treasured document will give your kids something to ignore when they find you keeled over in your rocking chair.
Lemme tell ya buddy, the funeral director who’s going to handle MY planting hasn’t been born yet! I plan to go down kicking and screaming shortly after pulling an all-nighter at a wild New Year’s Eve 2065 party.
Until then, what I don’t need is daily reminders that time is no longer on my side. What I DO need is something to counter all this ageist propaganda.
I’m thinking it may be time to order some X-Ray Specs and take out a subscription to “Weekly Reader.” As I recall, the print used to be pretty big in that magazine. Maybe I could still see it without my reading glasses.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com
(616) 548-8273
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