The AARP Bulletin Came Yesterday

Brother Jim reminded me today that I have been ignoring my blogger duties. The truth is, this has been the winter of my discontent. We got back from San Diego on January 2, and a day or two later it snowed, and we never saw the grass again until the middle of last week. Last night the grass disappeared again under six or eight inches of snow.

Anyway, AARP has been getting the best of me lately, mostly because their magazine is dedicated to celebrities, who are mostly boring and have had so many face lifts their faces look like masks. Then came the January AARP Bulletin, which was all about boomers at sixty-five. It caused a reaction. Whether that reaction can be classified as getting things off my chest or merely as whining is for others to say. For better or worse, this is how I felt about the article at the time. A month later, I still feel that way.

The AARP Bulletin Came Yesterday

The AARP Bulletin came yesterday.
The AARP Bulletin, January issue,

all about Boomers at sixty-five:

busy, vital people;

people doing things,

energetic, happy people.

People who walk, and run,

and swim, and bike,

and lift weights,

and work, and do useful things.


It’s winter.

My world ends at the front door.

The snow.

The goddamned snow keeps me inside.

The snow and my legs.

My heavy and slow and unreliable legs

that make driving difficult on clear, dry roads.

How the hell am I supposed to drive on icy, snowy roads

when my legs are heavy, and slow, and unreliable?

What if I lose control and go into a ditch?

Big deal.

What if I lose control and make someone else’s legs

heavy, and slow, and unreliable, and useless?


Ask for help, I’m told.

Don’t be ashamed; don’t be proud.

Ask for help.

Get in the wheelchair;

let someone else push.

And let someone else struggle with my legs;

my stiff and uncooperative legs,

my legs that won’t get into the car without a fight.

Then, when we get where I am going,

someone else can get the wheelchair out of the trunk

and help me out of the car,

and back into the wheelchair,

and push me through the parking lot that isn’t plowed,

and down the sidewalk that isn’t shoveled,

and through the door that isn’t handicapped accessible.

Have someone else do the work.

That’s the life for me.


Keep your magazines, AARP.

Don’t bother me with them.

Don’t remind me of what I can’t do;

don’t remind me of what life could be.


(Some day I'll understand how to copy and paste Windows documents into this blog and maintain the spacing. Until then, bear with me, please.)

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