Thirty-nine.. again

Turning 39 can be traumatic, especially for those of us doing it for the third time. As the fateful day approached, I conducted some independent research by asking my minivan full of kids how old I looked.

“About 45,” said one depressingly honest kid who needs a firmer hand at home (note to self: tell husband to get to work on that).

“Twenty-two,” chirped a brilliant and --- it must be said -- uncannily observant little girl named Elya. I instructed her to tell her mom that she should eat candy for dinner, and I lovingly replayed her comment in my mind until I asked her how old my husband Glenn looks. Bear in mind that he’s five-and-a-half years older than me — ten if you round up.

“Twenty-two,” Elya chirped.

Clearly drastic measures were called for. It didn’t help that the day’s mail brought a fashion magazine with skin-care regimes for women of different ages. The categories of ages were under 20, 20 to 30, 30 to 40, and 40 and up.

It’s official -- I’m in the “and up” category. Me and Queen Elizabeth. The lady ahead of you in the passing lane who’s going three miles an hour, the guy taking out his false teeth at the diner (see him? He’s the one ordering saltines and Metamucil), Barbara Bush with her string of yellowing pearls, and me. To the glossy fashion magazines, we’re all “and ups.” (Oh, and that skin care regime? Aim a sandblaster at your face and pray.)

So I went out and did something guaranteed to make me feel like a spring chicken, which everyone knows is a vastly more sprightly species than the curmudgeonly fall chicken. I joined AARP.

And I swear on my calcium supplements, it’s better than Botox.

Every month, I toss aside my glossy magazines with their 14-year-old Ukrainian cover models and dive into the world of AARP. Instead of coveting the jutting cheekbones and colt-like legs of the fashion world’s latest elementary school playground “discoveries,” I smugly turn the pages of AARP magazine, and start to feel like a Ukrainian cover model. Sometimes I even violently suck in my cheeks for a better effect.

In the world of AARP, I’m the young one.

The women in AARP magazine battle cellulite. They cover their gray – or not! Their crow’s feet practically caw.

My recent issue of AARP magazine showed a picture of gorgeous actress Andy MacDowell and casually mentioned that she’s 50. By contrast, my Marie Claire magazine tells me that when cover girl Jessica Alba counseled a group of teenaged girls, she advised them not to have babies until they were all grown up and mature. Like Alba, who is pregnant at 26. Isn’t she glad she waited until she’d done and seen everything and lived a full, rewarding life? Isn’t she glad she waited to get pregnant until she was old?

AARP magazine has ads for planning your will, mattresses to soothe achy backs, and the Walgreens prescription savings club. There’s an interview with Barbara Walters, who talks about the importance of doing squats so you’ll be able to get out of a chair without holding onto it for dear life. Instead of feeling ancient as I read about the exploits of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson, who seemingly morphed from fat-cheeked cherubs into stiletto-wearing clubgoers overnight, I learn that Jack Nicholson does yoga and feels undignified hitting on young women in public (although I believe he just perked up at the mention of twins).

I flip through the pages faster, feeling a gentle glow. AARP’s fashion spread shows clothing worn by women whose bodies don’t resemble muscular coat hangers. I happily reach for a Rice Crisipies treat.

Over 50 and uninsured? Asks one ad. Nope, I answer gleefully, turning the page.

A reason to celebrate! Trumpets another ad. Depends is now more absorbent than ever! I pump my fists.

“What the hell are you doing?” my husband asks. I peer over the edges of my magazine: “It’s cheaper than therapy.”

“Carry on,” he says, ever frugal.

By the time I’ve finished the magazine, I feel like I’ve spent the day being sandblasted at a spa.

“How old do I look?” I ask the depressingly honest kid.

“Twenty-two,” he says. I silently acknowledge his wisdom and improved vision.

“Do I get candy for dinner now?” he asks.