If you labor under the delusion that there is even a modicum of privacy in our lives, you need a reality check. Just ask any fifty-year-old.

Even before you blow out the candles on your Hatching Day cake, your mailbox overflows with letters from AARP. Where do you suppose they get your information? The IRS and other governmental departments happily sell it to all comers. Wonder who gets to keep the money?

In any case, once AARP has your information, it never stops pestering you. Some people write Return to Sender on the envelopes, but the continued demands to join never end. AARP kills countless trees and clutters the plus fifty folks’ mailboxes in their quest to get your money.

With each year past the half-century mark, other enterprising companies join the stuff-the-mailbox-game. At first, a trickle of letters offer funeral insurance, and then the Neptune Society entices (they assume) with offerings for cremation. There is no need for a zombie apocalypse when ghouls disguised as profit-from-death businesses slink around every corner. What such companies do not realize is some may want to charter a rocket to launch their bodies into outer space instead of a standard burial or cremation.

Imagine you are browsing in a store. The clerk greets you and then proceeds to follow you around. All you want is a few moments of peace as you check out their wares. What do you do if the clerk (also known as the Hound of the Baskervilles) continues to slobber on your heels or shoulders? You become annoyed and leave without purchasing anything.

The response to the plethora of mailings from AARP and other determined companies preying on seasoned citizens is similar. Some return them, while others shred and recycle or burn the junk snail mail. Can you see folks gleefully prancing around a bonfire of junk mail? That would be a sight worth the price of admission.

What such companies, including the Medicare supplementals, forget or never realize is that age is just a number and not an illness. A lady friend reached the age to apply for Medicare as well as a supplement. Within days after the supplemental insurance contract went into effect, the phone calls started. Thank goodness for Caller ID.

In a weak moment, she answered the phone. The supplemental insurance company representative asked her to answer a few survey questions, and she agreed.

Do you have trouble walking?

“I walk two to four miles on the treadmill every day.”

Do you have trouble raising your arms above your head?

“No, but I have trouble reaching things on the top shelf of the cabinet.”

Why?

“Because I’m short.”

Do you feel depressed or lack self-worth?

“Nope.”

Are you suicidal?

“Nope.”

Do you need in-home care?

“No. I don’t need people snooping around my house.”

Do you need assistance going to the store or appointments?

“Nope. I like to drive and enjoy the occasional highway drag race. I tend to have a lead toe.”

Have you had your pneumonia shot this year?

“I did not and will not because the last time I had the pneumonia shot, I barely avoided going into shock.”

Oh! What about your annual flu shot?

“Nope. Every time I got a flu shot, I contracted the flu.”

Would you like information on our silver care wellness program?

“Nope. As I told you, I have a treadmill, free weights, and workout every day at home. Don’t want to waste time driving somewhere just to get sweaty with strangers.”

Do you have difficulty stooping? 

“I do forty squats every day.”

Wow! I can’t do that many.

The representative was implying that even though she was much younger than the geezer-ette, she was not as fit as the Seasoned Citizen.

Thank you for your time. Let us know if you are interested in any of our services. 

“Don’t hold your breath waiting for my call,” the lady muttered as she ended the call.

Age is just a number, not an affliction.