After a steady stream of membership offers over the past couple of years, I finally decided "Why fight it?" and sent in my $12.50 to join the army. That's the AARP army to you, punk.

And all this time I thought I was just a random recipient of those power wheelchair ads. Instead I discover that I'm a demographic, part of the boomer tsunami that's flooding the nation and causing the graying of America — but not if my hairdresser has anything to say about it.

I am 50, hear me wheeze. Yawn? Cry out because I've fallen and I can't get up?

While not quite ready to hang a personal alarm around my neck, I gotta tell ya, sometimes getting up the stairs can be a challenge. Thirty years ago I might have gotten excited about the prospect of needing regular hits of a substance called "Joint Juice" to get through the day, but now it's just one item on a long shopping list of consumer products for the senior set.

And before I can get to Longs for the Sunday morning sale to pick up those items, it takes me two or three false starts to get out the door. (Try wait, have I become one of those people you meet at Longs?)

"OK, where are my keys? Shucks, forgot my sunglasses. Oh, yeah, my cell phone. Now why am I going to the store?"

And you know those old ladies who wear too much perfume? I think I might be one. I can barely smell my cologne anymore and find myself applying an extra spritz or two before leaving the house. And I hate that!

I was expecting diminished eyesight and hearing, but no one said anything about a fading sense of smell and taste. Must've been in the fine print — hold on, just let me get my reading glasses.

My family also has informed me that I am in the habit of making assorted noises for no apparent reason, usually while reading the paper, watching the tube or in some other sedentary pose. These include grunts, groans and lots of deep sighs, which I chalk up to general weariness and resignation.

Never mind the constant urge to write indignant letters to the editor complaining about the hotrodders who speed up and down my street, or those rude pet owners who refuse to clean up after their dogs, despite my stink looks and self-righteous displays of poop scooping. Harrumph!

And while I am not a fan of "Matlock" or "Murder, She Wrote," I do love me some "Columbo." I know now why my late mother was such a devotee of those shows. Each episode has a self-contained plot suitable for people who suffer from memory lapses or who have trouble sustaining interest for more than an hour at a time, and there's very little action or loud noises to startle you if you doze off.

"Lost" and "24" require viewers to pay close attention and keep track of characters and story threads over the course of weeks, months and even years. It's hard work and they're asking for more commitment than I can give.

Bring on Joe Moore and the Wheel, and if the orthopedic shoe fits, wear it. Sigh.

Reach Christie Wilson at cwilson@honoluluadvertiser.com.