Give Me a Break, AARP

Okay, okay, okay.

I am eligible for the AARP card and subsequently, the magazine. But c'mon already, the articles in this month's magazine really depressed me beyond clinical.

Not only did I learn that Sam Elliott is 70 years old, but that pooping in one's pants upon age progression is perfectly normal.

On the misguided illusion that pooping and peeing is sacrosanct and should not be talked about at the dinner table, or anywhere else for that matter, I now read that it's okay to pee when you laugh and to poop uncontrollably when you eat artichokes just because you're over the age of 55.

According to AARP, because of my age, my breath smells because I need to scrape my tongue more, I need skin lightener for my age spots and my nose is getting bigger because, of all things, the rest of my face is shrinking into a shriveled prune-like visage. Not to mention, I apparently cannot scrub my feet in the shower because I'm the equivalent of 413 in dog years so my feet smell like ass.

On the up side, the magazine this month (honestly, I usually throw it away, but at 5 a.m. this morning, I was tempted) profiles how to keep things hot in the bedroom after the age of 50. So glad that just because I'm a "senior" I can still have sex, providing my "senior" partner uses Viagra. And if he doesn't, vibrators and sex toys are "all said to satisfy consistently." Okay, enough, AARP. Stay out of my bedroom, nasty little magazine. There is much, much more to life than a sex toy in my obviously waning years.

The very next story was about a woman who "remained in the closet about her condition," which was depression. She was happily married, in a great town in the Pacific Northwest and had a wonderful job. She was pretty, blonde and young but progressively became depressed and subsequently on medication to battle everything from a broken fingernail to her cat not pooping in the litterbox. Okay, so I'm making light of a serious psychological and physical condition, and she probably didn't have a cat, but in 1985, when she was diagnosed, everyone was being diagnosed with something that required feel-good drugs. Most of us baby-boomers just smoked pot. Cause it was cheap. And didn't require a doctor, just a good friend or a few good friends with some good friends. The moral of the story was, after psychologist hubby bought her a nice convertible, they moved to Miami, she stopped taking Prozac and got an even greater job, she's not depressed any more.

Which just proves my theory: Stay away from gray, rainy states and live in one with consistent sunshine. Own a convertible that messes up your hair and makes you learn cloud formations so that you can predict possible showers. If you have a great job and can retire from it, do so. And if things get overwhelming, find some good friends with pot.