30 Is the New 65

I can't complain about my day. It was long, but relatively nice. Good work. Good conversation. Good food. The one blemish on my day was my, er... blemish. The big one on my chin. The one the 2nd AD pointed out, saying "You have something on your face." In hindsight, I wish I'd played along with it and walked away quickly, wiping at my chin with a napkin. It would have been easier. Instead I said "Oh, that's a zit! Thanks!" with a deadpan delivery that left him mumbling and visibly uncomfortable. Me, it was no sweat. If I decided to dig a hole and crawl into it every time I have a breakout I'd be living in China by now. He however realized he'd crossed that invisible line whereby you do not refer out loud to one other's shortcomings. I.e., "Hi Bob, nice boil on your neck. Ingrown hair?" Kind of like when I asked the hairdresser how she was feeling and acknowledged her growing baby bump only to learn she wasn't pregnant. OUCH. (See future post on "Times I've Felt Stupid.")

What's a zit here and there? They come and go like the wind, or the tides. Cyclically. Time of the month and stuff.

Oh heck, why am I beating around the bush? No need to be modest here. The truth is I look remarkably young for my age. Seventeen, I'd say. I believe this even if my driver's license tells me it is impossible but for a grand act of God. I use my occasional adult acne as evidence of my youth and this is good enough for me.

So imagine my horror when I came home to find in my mailbox a piece of mail titled "It's Time to Learn About Medicare" from the AARP. The AARP! This stands for the Altogether Aged Retired People. What on earth are they doing in my mailbox, with my name on the front??! Oh good lord. Do they not know I have a blemish on my face, not wrinkles?! I am only seventeen, if only in my heart! It is really too soon for me to think of dying a pruney, forgetful death surrounded by other anachronistic relics who undoubtedly will be sending fear into home health aides everywhere by attempting to recall The Hammer Dance. Seriously, let's save the getting old for when I get old. Let me keep my zits, you can have the wrinkles, foggy memory and fragile bones.

On second thought and some quick reconsideration, as I already have a foggy memory, I am willing to advance my inner age to twenty-one. So I'll keep my zits and foggy memory. You can have the wrinkles and sprained hip. But I will not, repeat, will not join the AARP.

I do however reserve the right to change my mind should I forget my new age and become unable to resist the benefits of AARP membership. If I can get a discount on early bird dining, it just might be worth it.