Back off, AARP! I've got 39.208 years left

The association's national convention begins today in Orlando and runs through Thursday. It is safe to assume that a certain individual who qualifies for membership will not be making the trip.

By CHRISTOPHER SCANLAN

© St. Petersburg Times, published May 16, 2000

The envelope came late, a month after the big day. Somehow I thought I had eluded their gaze. But four days ago, when I got home from work, there it was, sitting on the dining room table, waiting for me.

"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.

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. So why does it bother me? Is it 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.

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 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.

As I approached the big day, I set a goal to lose 25 pounds. At least I wouldn't be fat and old. But I kept caving, to bagels and cream cheese, Hershey bars with almonds, Oreo shakes at the Dairy Queen, hot cocoa with whipped cream at Barnes & Noble.

Instead of my goal weight, the scale reached a figure I'd never imagined. Must I say it? 214 pounds. My body fat percentage was 29 percent. It should be 10 points lower. My total cholesterol was 205, which put me at high risk of strokes and heart attacks. My "good" cholesterol was bad. I had a chronic backache. I was, in short, a mess.

I know these facts about my body because, in a moment of pure synchronicity, Colleen, our human resources person at work, organized a "Wellness Day" three days before my birthday. It was a smorgasbord of mainstream and alternative health care. My feet were kneaded by a reflexologist, my hands were dipped in paraffin, I submitted to my first acupuncture treatment (it produced a feeling of bliss that made me feel it was 1971 again) and I subjected myself to an evaluation from a team from a local hospital.

When the report came in, the news in my Personal Wellness Profile was bad -- out of a possible 100, my score was a measly 37 -- a discovery so dispiriting that I couldn't even read it all the way through. When Colleen followed up with an announcement that work would pay for anyone to join a weight-loss and exercise program, I jumped.

Would I be doing any of this if I weren't 50? I doubt it. There's something about this passage that scares and saddens me. Somehow, and I can thank AARP for contributing to the feeling, the prospect of retiring signals an end that I don't want to arrive. The days seem shorter and I want them to last longer. Eating better, feeling my thighs scream as I paddle up one more digital hill on the Stairmaster, gives me hope that I can live to 100. Or at least to 89.208.

Perhaps my bias about retirement is fueled by the word's earliest use, etymology that lingers like linguistic DNA in our sensibilities. When the French spoke of retiring in the 1500s they were describing military forces drawing back from battle, usually in defeat. Only with the 20th century, Social Security and longer life spans, did the idea of withdrawing to relax rather than licking wounds come into vogue.

And therein, I decide, lies my problem. At 50, I'm ready to charge, even if it's only up a Stairmaster, not retreat. I want to decide my fate or at least the parts of it I have control over. Retirement may be thrust on me by forces outside of my control: illness, disability, corporate decisions.

So you know what? I'm not going to open the letter. I won't shred it. I may just put it back in the mailbox with a scrawled reply on the front: "No such person."

So thanks, AARP, but no thanks. Take this Membership Certificate and Temporary Membership Card and retire it.

Christopher Scanlan teaches writing at the Poynter Institute for Media Studies in St. Petersburg.

At a glance

• WHAT: "AARP Celebrates 2000" -- speakers, educational workshops, more than 600 exhibition booths, fitness festival and ethnic heritage celebrations.

• WHERE: Orange County Convention Center, 9800 International Drive, Orlando

• WHEN: 8:30 a.m.-7:30 p.m. today and Wednesday, 8:30-4 p.m. on Thursday.

• COST: $7 for AARP members, $15 for non-members (which includes a year's membership). Open to all ages.

• REGISTRATION: At the door.

• PARKING: $7 at the convention center and at auxiliary lots at Sea World and Universal Studios. Free shuttle buses will transport people from the auxiliary lots to the convention center.

• FOR MORE INFORMATION: Check out http://www.aarp.org on the Internet.
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