Fellow seniors, we’re getting old. Yep, old. That’s hard to admit but it beats the alternative, and the really good news is we’re on the brink of becoming the majority.

Majority: I’m enjoying the sound of that word. Retailers don’t have to like us to be crazy about our SS/Retirement coins which, compounded by our numbers, translate into POWER. Whoopee! If I had muscles I’d flex them.

To accommodate us tottery dowagers, the Gap says it’s revamping its clothing line to appeal to 40- through 50-year-old women. Surely that doesn’t mean moo-moos and polyester slack suits with elasticized waistbands. My friends and I have progressed beyond the Gap’s specified age group — some of us farther than others — but we wouldn’t be caught dead (hopefully) in that stuff.

Not that we’re eager to patronize those good folks in the first place, but if they were serious they’d cater to our active, involved lifestyles instead of our age, and I think we should tell them so. There’s strength in numbers, by golly, and seniors, that would be us.

Listen up now, ‘cause I’m just getting started. Our legions are strong and the time is ripe for the Golden Insurrection, so grab up your bi/trifocals, plug in your hearing aid, batten down those dentures, slather on that SPF-32-strength Ben Gay and meet me at the crossroads. Together we can better our lot.

First off let’s put a stop to those deceitful, official-looking missiles that show up in our mailboxes and make our hearts go pitty-pat. You know, the grayish-white ones with their perforated ends demanding that you TEAR HERE — the ones that look like official Social Security bulletins but aren’t. Also those sham IRS-look-alike brown window-envelopes and the white legal-size ones stamped LAST NOTICE for a debt you don’t owe.

Cardiac arrest is scant moments away before we get those babies ripped open; but if we’re sure, really sure they’re not worthy, let’s not open them at all. Let’s scrawl “Not at this address” across every last one of those imposters and toot them back to the sender. That’ll clog up their works for awhile.

I also have a plan for those engraved invitations to dine at an exclusive restaurant where — in exchange for a chicken fried steak and a baked potato — you’ll be required to listen to a three-piece suit hype his worthiness to ramrod your Revocable Trust.

What you do is collect their duplicates from every mail box on your street, check the “Yes” boxes and pencil in “Four Guests” on the RSVP cards and ship them all off by return mail. Separately, so they’ll be stuck with all that postage. You’ll be at home snacking on chips and dip at the appointed hour and they’ll be eating leftovers for a week.

Next on our Golden Insurrection agenda are those Botoxed waitresses who look down their pierced noses and call us Hon. Maybe Dear. Not a one of them means it. We don’t want them to mean it, so don’t leave them a tip. Even our grandkids — having learned early who signs the best Christmas checks — have better sense than to condescend.

Now a word about those phone solicitations from barracudas who have plucked our numbers from lists they conned off other barracudas to whom we were forced at one time to give a birth date:

“Marjorie?” booms the mega-decibel voice of a stranger who’d like to sell me a burial policy … a magic lift chair … a retirement plan. “Marjorie? … can you hear me?”

“Of course I can, fool,” I yell back before hanging up, “I’m not deaf! I’m old!”

I tried Caller ID but the caller’s name is too small to read in that little window. Besides, it would cost a fortune to replace all my phones and I could break a hip getting to the room where the Caller ID one is ringing.

Ms. Manners wouldn’t approve, but what I do instead is hang up if an unfamiliar voice starts out with “Marjorie.” When the dentist’s or doctor’s receptionist I’ve hung up on calls back she knows to holler, “Don’t hang up” right off the bat. Sometimes I don’t and sometimes I do just for spite.

We’ve made nice long enough. Our ranks are swelling; our IRAs are paying off, and crotchety does reap results. Seniors, unite! Justice is a tip of the balance away.

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