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The end is near. My junk mail tells me so.

Used to be, I'd get various beseechings for travel tours, cruises, time shares.

Then it was on to cosmetic surgery, dental care and — should that fail — upper and lower plates.

Next came retirement communities, closely followed by assisted-living facilities.

After that, it was trusts and wills.

But now, apparently, it's even too late for that. Hence this recent missive, with the enticing come-on right on the envelope: "Free pre-paid cremation! Details inside."

How could I resist?

Inside was a tasteful letter, written on the kind of stationery your grandmother once used, reminding me how "cremation just makes sense."

Never mind that. How do I win a free one? Oh, I see. Up in the left-hand corner are the instructions: "Complete all of the reply slip information and you will be eligible for a drawing each month."

Down below was the name of the most recent winner. Lucky woman. She must be an "aging boomer" too.

From the cradle to the grave, merchandisers have been marketing to this pig in the python.

It began not long after those first squalls started multiplying in the maternity wards, circa 1946, now decreed the start of the baby boom.

Diaper companies and baby-food factories must have made out like bandits back then. (And, come to think of it, they may do so again as we enter those less-than-golden years.)

Next came toddler togs and Buster Brown shoes, Roy Rogers lunch pails and Schwinn bicycles, Lionel trains and Hula Hoops.

Into our teen years it roared: Clearasil and Aqua Net hairspray, Butch Hairwax and "you ain't nothin' but a hound dog," drive-in movie tickets and "American Bandstand."

With the '60s came bell-bottom jeans and Volkswagen vans, water beds and various pharmaceuticals.

As the boomers slouched off into matrimony, it became bridal boutiques and honeymoons in Hawaii, home mortgages and wall-to-wall shag carpeting.

When boomer homes started filling up with kids, the merchandising shifted to designer crib bedding and baby monitors, minivans and strollers.

Matrimony begat the divorce lawyers. Kids eventually grew up. Some even moved away.

And still the pitches kept coming, each one perfectly niched and nuanced to the age of the designated recipient.

Now's the time for that Caribbean cruise, that time share, and, oh yeah, how about a little tummy tuck here, a little eye lift there?

It was all so amusing, not to mention a little flattering. Boomers were at the peak of their earning power, and, boy, did the sellers know it.

And then it happened. The first wave of boomers suddenly fell into another subniche. Forget the cruises and lip plumpings.

How about a nice little retirement campus, instead? One with grab bars in the showers and cottage cheese with every meal?

We laughed out loud and threw the mail in the trash. Quickly. There must be some mistake. Surely, they can't be thinking of us? Oh, but they were — they and their relentless demographics.

And now it's the Grim Reaper's turn, lurking around the corner. Not so fast, Sonny. We'll let you know when we're ready.

Haven't we always?