By the time you reach a certain age, you begin receiving mysterious cards in the mail. Not birthday cards. Not handwritten notes from friends. Those disappeared sometime around the invention of social media and online banking.

No, I’m talking about the glossy invitations promising a FREE DINNER! in exchange for “a brief informational presentation.” “Brief” in this context is a highly flexible term.

I’m always tempted by anything FREE. Especially food. Shoot, I’m pretty sure if someone offered free lasagna in exchange for a presentation on llama farming, we’d be halfway to the car if it were up to me. But, as usual, Hubby has to throw cold water on my plans for a delicious NON-home-cooked meal.

“Look!” I say, waving the envelope excitedly, hoping that this time, Hubby will succumb. “Prime rib at the country club!”

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What are they selling?”

He studies the flyers meticulously before declaring them “not worth it.” Financial planning. Estate preparation. Medicare supplements. Reverse mortgages. Hearing aids. Adjustable mattresses. Solar panels. Funeral packages. Something called “wealth preservation strategies.” (As if we HAD wealth!)

The invitations always make the evening sound glamorous. “Join us for an elegant chef-prepared meal while learning important financial information for your future.” That’s marketing language for: “You will eat rubber chicken while someone explains annuities using pie charts.”

I should know better. I’ve been suckered into these presentations before. The presenters are always aggressively cheerful. They greet you at the door with the enthusiasm of cruise directors and the intensity of hostage negotiators.

“Welcome! We’re SO glad you’re here!”

Of course you are. We represent two warm bodies with retirement concerns and a checking account.

You can always tell who the veterans are at these dinners. They arrive early, sit near the back, and immediately ask where dessert will be served. These people know the system. The newcomers still believe this is primarily about the food. It is not. The food is bait. And honestly, not bad bait. I mean, a free steak at Ruth’s Chris might entice me to consider investing in whatever they’re selling simply out of gratitude.

At some point during the salad course, the lights dim and the PowerPoint begins. That’s when things get uncomfortable. The speaker starts asking deeply personal questions to a room full of strangers.

“Have you thought about what will happen to your assets if the market collapses?” Then come the scare tactics. Apparently, according to these presentations, we are all:

• one illness away from financial ruin,
• one tax increase away from living under a bridge,
• and one probate hearing away from complete family destruction.

Honestly, after forty-five minutes, the free chicken starts feeling emotionally expensive. Particularly when the presenters try to create a sense of urgency.

“You must act NOW.”

Why? Because the salmon was included?

The funniest part is watching couples interact during the presentation. There’s always one spouse (me) completely captivated. The other (Hubby) looks like they’re mentally calculating whether the free brownie was worth this lecture on long-term care planning.

The most dangerous moment comes at the end when they hand out the “totally optional” information cards. This is a trap. Once you write down your phone number, these people will pursue you with the commitment of a bounty hunter. You will receive calls, emails, follow-up mailers, and possibly carrier pigeons. Three years from now, someone named Brad will still be checking to see if you’ve “had time to think about protecting your financial future.”

At this point I’m tempted to be totally honest. “Brad, I just came for the free pie, which, in retrospect, really wasn’t worth it.”

“We could go and sneak out when the lights go down,” I suggest. “Or have someone phone us with an emergency.”

“That would be dishonest,” says Hubby.

“So? Your point?” I watch my dreams of a free prime rib disappear into the trash can along with the coupon flyers, miracle arthritis cures, and political donation requests.

Looks like we’ll be having Hamburger Helper instead. But at least nobody will be using a PowerPoint presentation to explain why we’re financially doomed while I’m trying to eat my Little Debbie dessert cake.