I have about 2 rows of journals, on one of my bookshelves–primarily skipped through, written in haphazardly at best, printouts of poems, and other other unfinished bits of writing… They make for some possibly interesting if disparate writing. I’m planning to get my sh** together…
Here from last night…
I was sorting through some papers on my— okay a bunch, and by a bunch, I mean a mountain of papers on my much beleaguered and usually invisible desk. And I picked up this AARP magazine. It’s addressed to my mother, not to me. I’m way too young for AARP. It’s addressed to my mother who doesn’t live here with me anymore. She’s in a lovely nursing home where her needs can be better met.
But! This AARP magazine. I was about to throw it away and I thought, “hey! wait a minute!” I’m two years in—where this might be pertinent—something in it—some article could actually and possibly be in someway helpful to my life.
AARP relevant to me? And I stop! And think about all the magazines that are no longer relevant to me. Such as Cosmo—which at some point went off the deep end and geared itself towards all these single upwardly mobile? twenty-year olds, primarily interested in performing and perfecting lewd acts, usually saved for the 25th year anniversary shenanigans, in the hopes this was their way to finding true and lasting love via the one night stand. Or Vogue or Glamour— fashion mags for high salaried 30 somethings, who traded their souls and their stomachs for heroin chic. Or the plethora of Mom magazines— for all those moms who traded—nay not traded, went kicking, screaming and crying from the rack at Forever21 to searching for yoga pants that didn’t suck at Old Navy. No, I don’t want to know how to bake the winner cake for the PTA or how to keep him interested, when the kids won’t go to sleep—ever. Not then-not ever.
Where is the magazine for me? The 50+ year old woman who wants to look their sexy best with the gray hair? Where can I find snazzy, sexy, colorful clothes for me!?! at a deep yet respectful discount? Where’s the magazine that shows me—crazy dog fur lady, how to go from crumply gray glasses-lost-on-her-head writing lady, to razzle-dazzle option A, for the sensible gray haired gents, not looking for twenty year old heart-attack inducers? Not that I’m looking, but being option A, it’d be nice. Where’s the magazine, for the 50+ sexy gray-haired yet still cute woman, who doesn’t consider sudoku, Ellery Queen or Reader’s Digest worthy now or ever? Where’s my Dionysian underbelly of a sexy, glossy, thinking woman’s magazine?
So, AARP, with your 50 to death readership market. I have to laugh. I’m nowhere near done, despite the fact that if I were to call myself middle aged it would mean I expect to live to 104. And, unless I can manage being 104, while painlessly spry of both body and mind, I’d really rather not.
AARP it’s the sound you make, when you gag on mindlessness, and attempted condescension.
AARP? Trash it, kid.