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How to feel better about falling apart
Here's how I cope with my disgusting, sagging middle-aged body.
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[02/24/00]

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[02/24/00]

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[02/23/00]

Direct to you
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By Dena Bunis
[02/23/00]

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"AARP," the return address said. "Membership Certificate and Temporary Membership Card Enclosed."

Busted.

I turned 50 in December. Friends who preceded me to that milestone had spoken of the day when the letter from the AARP arrived in the mail. They likened it to an unwelcome summons, a computer-generated siren song to a new life stage. In fact, in most cases, the letter preceded the actual event, like one of those early birthday cards from an obsessive relative.

I guess AARP wants me to retire.

Well, I don't want to.

I imagine a desert, full of wandering, barrel-bellied men in funny hats, plaid Bermudas, black knee-length socks and women wearing clothes the color of a sherbet rainbow. I don't want to retire. I don't want to be old. Or maybe what I don't want is to be considered old. My mother, who turned 82 this year, says she looks in the mirror and wonders, "Who is that old woman?"

I don't want to open their letter. I don't want to find out about all the discounts I can get. Fifty-cent coffee. Cheaper seats on planes. Senior discounts at movies. Call it denial. I thought retirement came at 65, so why is AARP after me?

I'm not going to open it. There's a shredder at work I've never used. My wife thinks I'm being infantile. Given the circumstances, that could be viewed as a compliment.

I wonder why the notion of retirement bothers me. After all, enjoying a hard-earned rest is a reasonable idea. I think of my old friend Joe Zingarelli, who spent 60 years working in a Waterbury, Conn., factory. In the decade before he died, he played volleyball, went on bus tours across the Northeast, tried his luck at Atlantic City's casinos. He deserved to retire. So why does it bother me? Is it the fact that you can't even have a birthday without some lobbying group's computerized mailing list seeking you out?

Perhaps it's my resistance to joining. I don't like the way we Americans balkanize ourselves -- by race, gender, sexual preference, age or any number of demographic and cultural markers that are often the most superficial measurements of who we really are.

Understandable objections, but that's not it. Still mystified by my resistance to opening AARP's belated birthday card, I look to the dictionary for guidance. From the American Heritage Dictionary I find clues that help me understand why I find AARP's invitation so offensive. Retire means "To withdraw, as for rest or seclusion. To go to bed. To withdraw from one's occupation, business, or office; stop working." A fine idea. Once. Like at the turn of the last century when the average male died at the ripe old age of 45.

I have other plans. As my sixth decade approached, I decided to pretend that I was in utero once again, ready to launch on my second 50 years, an improved version in which I would avoid the excesses of my misspent youth. This fantasy isn't inconceivable, although according to lifespan calculators on the Net, I'm being a bit optimistic.

My favorite of these digital crystal balls is The Living to 100 Life Expectancy Calculator, developed from longevity research and studies of centenarians by Thomas T. Perls and Margery Hutter Silver, two specialists in aging at Harvard Medical School. Based on my answers to a series of pointed questions about my health and lifestyle: "Do you stay away from processed meats? Do you live near enough to other family members that you can drop by spontaneously? Do you take vitamin E (800 IU/day) and selenium (200 mcg) daily?" I can expect to live until I'm 89.208 years old. The average for males is 84.

Next page | Retiring used to mean withdrawing military forces, usually in defeat