Ervolino: The hardest part of being a senior citizen is calling yourself one

In 2004, I got my first invitation to speak to a local senior citizens group. And, yes, I had mixed feelings about it.

“Who wants to speak to a bunch of old people?” I thought to myself.

I didn’t respond to the request right away. I didn’t want to be rude about it. But then, two weeks later, I received my official invitation to join AARP.

I opened the envelope, saw photos of smiling POCAs — persons of a certain age — and became lightheaded.

AARP? Isn’t that for old-timers? Geezers? Fuddy-duddies?

I was only 49 at the time. But that’s when they come looking for you.

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Ditto for the mausoleum salesmen.

I thought I could hide from them, like Ben and Barbra in “Night of the Living Dead.” But, a few days later, another AARP mailing arrived.

By this point, I had barricaded myself in the basement. But my 25-year mailman shoved the letter in through a window.

“More mail for the old guy!”

Grrr.

Anyway, I did join AARP and never regretted it. I also accepted that speaking engagement, and it went well, too. So well, in fact, that many invitations, from other senior groups, followed.

I enjoyed doing these little shows so much that I urged my parents to get involved with their own local senior center.

“It’s fun,’ I said. “They have meetings, parties, day trips, handsome young guest speakers…”

My mother gasped: “Senior citizens? That’s for OLD people! We’re still young!”

She and my father were both over 75 at the time.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “You’re older than sliced bread!”

“Am not!”

“Are so!”

For the record, sliced bread debuted in 1928, along with bubblegum and french fries. The cheeseburger came along in 1935.

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My parents were older than cheeseburgers, french fries and bubblegum.

Granted, Mom and Dad didn’t look their age, and they tried not to act like it, either. But, there were subtle clues.

Like when someone famous died….

When he was younger, I would tell my father, “Peter Sellers died,” and he’d say, “What a shame. What did he die from?”

But in his later years…

“Dad, Alec Guinness died!"

“Really? How old was he?”

“Dad, Walter Matthau died!"

“You’re kidding! How old was he?”

Ditto for Hedy Lamar, Rex Harrison and Paul Newman.

“How old was Paul Newman?” Dad asked.

“Four months older than you,” I replied. “And much better looking.”

My father was 89 when my mom died in 2016. A year later, I managed to get him to his first senior citizen meeting. By then, his hearing and vision had seriously declined.

Of course, this didn’t keep him from flirting with much younger (87-year-old) women. But he found the whole experience unsatisfying.

On the drive home, he said, “They seemed nice. But I’m too old for all this. Why didn’t you tell me about this place earlier?”

(Ever since I saw “Goldfinger” in 1964, I’ve dreamed of having a car with an ejector seat.)

Fast-forward to June of this year. I was at my place on Long Island — where I still spend most weekends — and my friend Tom said, “I was talking to David last week and he told me he joined some senior group he likes. It’s all retirees, like us.”

“I’m only semi-retired,” I said. “And I’m not as old as David.”

“You are four years older than David. So, what do you think? I’d like to go. Why don’t we just check it out? If we don’t like it…”

“I’m an old codger? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I never said that,” he replied. “But, yes, you are an old codger. And a coot. And a curmudgeon.”

“Stop, please.”

“And a geezer. And a prune. And a…”

“ENOUGH!”

That night I began seeking out advice on how to accept the fact that I’ve become the old guy in the room.

I kept seeing the same list: Challenge your assumptions. Be grateful. Limit negative influences. Discover the joys of pickleball!

Blah-blah-blah.

I decided to keep busy instead. So I called a bunch of friends and said, “My friend Mary sings and she’s doing a show next Friday night. Let’s go see her. Maybe get a few drinks! Have some fun!”

Most of the people I contacted were stunned that Couch Potato Bill suddenly wanted to do anything.

“That was the old me,” I said. “Now I want to go out! Dance! Party all night! Who wants to go zip-lining?”

I finally got a group of people together for Friday. We went out early for burgers and drinks. By the the time the show started at 7:30, my knees were swollen and I needed a nap.

At intermission, Tom got a text and told us that Matthew Perry had died.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “How old was he?”

I went to my first senior citizens meeting the following Monday.

This article originally appeared on NorthJersey.com: Ervolino: How to accept that you are a senior citizen