Am I My Spam? My Spam I Am?

I’m suffering through an identity crisis, no longer young, not quite old. It’s tough. Now, however, it appears my spam folder is confused too, littered with scams across a checkered demographic wasteland. I get sexy stuff. I get old age stuff. Who am I? And if I am my spam, I’m more befuddled  than ever!

Yes, each day, as I muddle through middle age, I wonder about my identity. I know I’m not young, although condescending folk continually greet me with the belittling, “Hello, young lady. How can I help you today?” Yet, I don’t feel old, although my mirror tells a different tale, revealing a sagging, wrinkled countenance.

Now, my junk mail is adding to my identity conundrum.

First of all, the sex spam I receive is always from women, never guys. Why is that? That’s confusing in and of itself. Then, even if I was inclined to respond to say just half of the come-ons, I would need the vim and vitality of a lover a third my age!

Spam I am not!

I receive home warranty and improvement offers better suited for energetic young home buyers and even recent empty nesters, all ready to spend, spend, spend on their domiciles, versus me and my man, who yearn to shed, shed, shed and downsize.

Simultaneously, all-inclusive, too-good-to-be-true honeymoon trip deals to Cancun flood my spam folder, alongside miracle, cure-all treatments for EVERY elder ailment that ails me. Yes, miracles do abound if you believe the Internet and email offers!

Who am I? Even my spammers cannot decide!

Clearly, my spam folder needs the magic algorithm that governs my Facebook ads! There, at least, Mark Zuckerberg’s minions know me to a “T,” from my monstrous migraines down to my creaking knees and bulbous bunions!

And while I’m not looking for love or loans, I do find it fun to glance at the trash that pours nonstop into my spam folder — not that I ever open any of those messages! Good Lord, no! Nor should you ever!

Still, “Rose” sounds nice. So do “Alima,” “Julia,” and “Tracy.” They all seem so friendly, yet shy and polite, although the language they use sometimes is a bit shocking. Maybe if they met nice boys to take them out to dinner and a movie, they’d spend less time sending messages to strangers. Perhaps I should introduce them to that Nigerian prince who used to email me all the time. I wonder what happened to him? A-hum!

Down with Spam!

But in all seriousness, what amazes me about all these spam messages is the calculated cruelty behind them. Spammers are masters in preying on people’s loneliness, vulnerability, and basic trust.

When I get a message that says my Amazon account security has been hacked, I worry. I rush to open that message. When I see a message from Rose, Alima, or Julia saying I seem nice and they’d like to get to know me, I’m flattered for a split second. I want to believe them. Likewise, when I see an offer for a great vacation deal, my interest is piqued. Yes, I know better. If it is too good to be true, then …. blah, blah, blah. So I stop myself, but that split second of hope, followed by disappointment, still stings.

And so, even for us, oh-so-savvy Internet users, that sting and disappointment are what linger. That almost gotcha moment. The realization that spammers almost catch us each and every day.

So, I take it back. Looking at my spam mail is not fun. And now I know. While still muddling through middle age, I’m clear on one point: I am most decidedly NOT my spam.