Old
Along with the usual collection of bills and advertisements, yesterday's mail brought a stark reminder of my own mortality. My very own AARP discount card had finally arrived just in time for my fiftieth birthday.

What a stunningly subtle souvenir for one celebrating a half century of life. Why not include a photo of an open grave with a caption reading "Good Luck in Your New Location?" At first, I must admit, I was both appalled and saddened upon the appearance of this laminated indication of my impending doom. I stared at the card as if it was a communication from the governor, refusing to commute my stay of execution.

A glance in the mirror served as an additional suggestion of what is to come. For most of my life, my outward appearance has been likened to the disheveled presence of an un-made bed and I have tried (somewhat unsuccessfully) to trade on that lived-in, rumpled kind of charm to some extent. Now, however, the mattress is sprouting some un-planned additions and I'm not talking dust ruffles. Adding more credence to Darwin's Theory, my ears are growing hair at an astonishing rate. Soon villagers will be chasing me down with torches and silver sticks bent on popping the first lycanthrope of werewolf season. My eyes are drooping as is my posture, and I am beginning to resemble Jedi Master Yoda, but without any of the folksy wisdom.

Similar to many men of my advanced years, my hind-quarters is headed for the endangered species list. I am not certain what laws of nature are at work here, however, I know now why so many older gents wear suspenders. My office chair has become a kind of a kiddie slide when I chance to lean backwards, my rear pockets heading South without any back-up. As many times as I have been to Atlantic City and this is the way I have to lose my butt? How undignified!

I had almost dialed my good friend Tommy, who markets headstones, in hopes of testing the discount waters, but I could not decide on a catchy epitaph. Cemeteries are such sad places; why not provide a smile for a passing mourner? Something like "I told you I was sick" or "If you are close enough to read this message you are probably standing on my head." Perhaps I can promote an advertising sponsorship deal offering the space on my tombstone to the highest bidder as a way of off-setting some of the burial costs? It has certainly worked for NASCAR. Question:
Does Chevy make caskets? I'm sure Tommy would know.

If I was able to raise enough cash during this funeral venture, I could conceivably afford to upgrade my accommodations to a nice air-conditioned mausoleum. It could be a place where mourners could seek shelter from stormy weather and even enjoy a picnic. Ideally, I will not be buried in the conventional way, but stuffed and placed in my trusty recliner, on full public display between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00, Monday through Friday. Visitors could pose for snap shots with me (no flash photography please) and I would have a variety of outfits that I would wear only on specified bank holidays, just like a giant Build-a-Bear.

Hey this getting older stuff is really not that bad. Before the taxidermist loads me up with rags and ships me to my final resting place, I might take a turn as the neighborhood curmudgeon. Chasing kids off of my lawn, complaining about the weather, and allowing my dog Roscoe to fertilize the neighbor's yard seems like a fun way to pass what little time I have left. I have always said that if you gotta go you might as well go obstinate and cranky.

On December twelfth my AARP card will activate and I will begin my slow decent down the other side of the slope. Although I now feel somewhat prepared to face that final curtain, I would prefer to pass as my maternal grandfather (a curmudgeon of note himself) once wished. "If I had my druthers," he said "I would prefer to be shot by a jealous husband at the age of 104."
I am not really sure what "druthers" are, but there is a good chance that they are at least 20% off this month on the AARP website.