Because I am now officially old, please do not send me emails asking me to leap about in the rain wearing nothing but purple underwear while I am singing. I won’t do it.
Do not ask me to plan a skydiving jump on my 80th or 90th with a sexy buff young dude attached to my back, because I won’t do it.

Do not suggest that I do idiotic whacko things because I’m old, because “time’s running out and I’ll regret it if I don’t.”

I won’t. I did not even consider doing those whacko things when I was young so why would I do them now?

Do not insist that I swim with sharks, because, why would I? The ocean is their turf and what they decide to have for lunch that day might be me, even if I have become aged and am likely very chewy, and that’s their right, so I will not do that.

Do not even hint that old ladies are hilarious and cute. Do not expect me to swear a lot. I can do that without any encouragement.

Do not ask me to get up and join in with those tribal, gyrating, suggestive, donottouchyourpartner embarrassing ungraceful group dances you all do at weddings and gatherings. There is little more grotesque than watching someone my age or older desperately trying to join into one of those awful snake pit shaking episodes done to screeching “music” that is today’s “dancing.”

Do not ask me to discuss and laugh at disgusting uncontrollable bodily noises and functions. I won’t do it.

Do not ask me to share (oh how I hate that annoying touchie-feelie word “share” — what happened to “tell” or “talk about” or “give” or “lend” or “Here! Catch!”) … anyway, do not ask me to reveal great worldly wisdoms just because I’ve passed 78, since I don’t have any to tell, and as I always council anyone who knows me, “if I give you advice, take it, do exactly the opposite and you’ll do just fine.”

Just because I am old, it doesn’t automatically make me (or anyone else) wise. Common sense is not one of my personal specialties, so I won’t dispense any.

Because I am now 79 and staring down the No. 80 gun barrel in a few months, do not send me yard long lists of stupid, insulting, boring, untrue jokes about elderly people, usually women, because they are unfunny, degrading, ugly, insulting, boring and untrue and they never, ever make me laugh. Read them? I won’t do it.

And do not send me geezer motivational sayings for my refrigerator. I will recycle them. I will not read them.

If I stagger, do not tell me to see a doctor. I won’t do it. Old people occasionally lose their balance, not always their marbles, so just stay quiet and see if they can steady themselves. If they can’t, offer help but lose that deeply concerned, oh-I-so-want-to-help-you, you-poor-old-helpless-useless-thing look on your face, or you’ll maybe find out that we elderlies have a lot of viciously-strike-you strength left in these withered old arms and lots more very sharp, very blue words left in our withered old brains. Do not rush over and offer arms and ambulances unless I ask you to.

Do not tell me if I should suddenly decide to die, that I’ll be going to a “better place.” You do not know that and in fact no one does or ever did.

Do not gently and sweetly ask me if I have all my affairs in order. Of course I have, so stop being a moron. It is unbecoming. And try to remember that one day quite soon you’ll be elderly, if you’re lucky, so lose the condescending attitude.

Do not ask me how it was back in the “old days” or how it made me feel when I saw my first airplane. They were roaring about up there years before I was born. If I am widowed, do not tell me you have a wonderful, wealthy, doesn’t-look-his-age blind date for me. Not interested. I already dislike him.

And do not ever dare to call me “80/90/100 years young.”

If I appear to be headed uncontrollably into my Last Gasp phase, do not whisper supportive things to me. I’m ready to go. With a huge grin. I have had a happy life. It is, however, my intention to make it to 100, so back away and buy me some green bananas.