Yes, I got the email. The one promising “senior perks.” If I walked with a HurryCane, I’d smack somebody with it.

I’d trade a folder full of porn spam for an inbox that had no references to A.A.R.P., heart monitors, medic alert paraphernalia, catheters, hearing aids, Stair Lift chairs or the fact that I too can be a member of the Colonoscopy of the Month club.

And please, stop sending me snail mail with prearranged funeral plans. What’s your hurry?

But rather than fight agism (I’m 56), I’m ready to embrace everything that they throw at me.

I’m not big on public transportation, but I’ve decided to ride the Nashua City Trolley just so I can make some whippersnapper – say 45 years old or so – give me their seat.

I’m tired of wearing just a belt. From now on, I’m going with the belt/suspenders combo, the Salisbury Steak early-bird special at Denny’s and morning naps.

I’m well aware that to be old and wise, I had to start out young and stupid. Now, that still won’t stop me from keeping all my coins in a change purse.

I hate butterscotch candies but I’m going to learn to love them. If I remember correctly, they’re ripe when they’re covered in pocket lint.

On the other hand, I hear that these things called CBD Gummies could be the answer to all my prayers. And terrible middle-of-the-night leg cramps.

For less than a cup of coffee a day, I’m told that I can save on life insurance. Insuring someone of my age is like buying day-old donuts.

I now cut coupons for things I don’t need like Baby Wipes and Pampers. On second thought…

I now know, but am not sure why, that I can save 30% off AMC and Regal Cinemas. Discount, smishcount. It doesn’t change the fact that I still have to walk half a mile in clunky orthopedic shoes to get to any rest room.

Now that I’m recognized by A.A.R.P, who can B.I.T.E. me, I’m going to start telling people the weather forecast based on what joint aches where.

I’m going to start bragging that I’m so old, I was either at the Ford Theatre with Lincoln or the Lincoln Theatre with Ford. I can’t remember. All I know is that I’m of the age when I have to say they’re both fine American automobiles.

I’m going to reminisce about my early years with the Fort Augustus Rally Team. You do the acronym.

I was at Surf this week and when the young waiter poured my water, I uttered the words, “Thank you son” before I could stop myself.

I tell people that I used to be filled with promise. Now I’m just full of sodium bicarbonate and dissonance.

I’m going to start whistling, bring back the phrase, “Hubba Hubba” and manage to get the word “gams” into every cocktail party conversation.

“Forget those fakakta Kardashians! I’ll take the Gabor sisters any night of the week! Talk about gams!”

Now that I’ll soon be breaking a hip instead of struggling to be hip, I’m going to start crashing funerals.

I’ll now only eat at restaurants where I can point to the picture of the food I want on the laminated menu.

I’m going to stop dieting and continue to drink beer. On the lawn in a chair. With my robe slightly askew. Not enough to offend or frighten the neighbors but enough to feel a nice breeze.

Enough of Men Without Hats. At my age, there is no such thing as a “Safety Dance.”

I can’t see without readers and I don’t care. I’ll just get the waiter to hold the menu for me from across the room.

I’m going to start viewing my programs like “CSI: Assisted Living,” “Murder She Wrote, But Can’t Remember Where She Left It,” and anything on CBS.

I’m bringing back Sans-A-Belt Slacks and prohibition. Just kidding on the latter.

I now have a mind like a steel trap. Steel rusts, right?

Forget Amazon. I’m going old-school with the Home Shopping Channel or maybe S&H Green Stamps.

I’ve decided to scratch a lot more in public. You can take that as more body, or more often. I don’t care. I can’t make decisions at this stage in life.

I’m going to start drug trials with anything that can keep me young, even if the Food and Drug Administration doesn’t approve. After all, their motto is “We Haven’t Even Approved Our Motto Yet.”

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