The Cruelest Invitation

I got it in the mail this week, along with the junk and the unwelcome bills, and, of course, the distinct lack of any checks. The plain, innocuously white envelope belied its true nature, but the bright red logo on the return address stopped me cold in my tracks.

"What's wrong?" Lady Wife enquired, eyeing me with concern.

"It's the AARP," I whispered. She gasped. "It's got a card inside."

Yes, a card. With my actual name on it. This was not a generic mailing to Current Resident (Dear Current...). No, this was the real thing, complete with a letter noting that I hadn't registered yet with the organization.

I always figured I'd had my midlife crisis at 25, when my first marriage blew up. I whipped past my thirtieth birthday without a second glance. Forty was a cause for celebration. But next month is the beginning of my fifth decade on the planet, and I find it's looming up like a vast shadow to eat my soul. This surprises me.

Sure, I have more trouble climbing stairs than I used to. My knees lock up unexpectedly. What's left of my hair is starting to go gray, trying to catch up to my beard. It's been years since anybody thought I was younger than I really was.

But none of that really bothered me until I got The Card. They send it out just before your fiftieth birthday, which is, I reckon, about ten years too soon. For me, anyway. I'm not old enough.

So I brace myself and open the envelope, and yes, there's a card inside. I can activate it by sending $12.50 before my birthday. There's a nice letter explaining all the benefits this will afford me. It's signed by the CEO of AARP.

I hate the CEO of AARP.

The Lady Wife tried to comfort me. Secretly she was tickled pink that I'd be bothered by something like this, but still she tried.

"There's no law that says you have to join," she points out. "What if you didn't send it in?"

She has a good point. I don't have to admit to being old. I could join the Hair Club for Men, start playing hip hop on my radio, use modern lingo like groovy and gnarley, wear my khakis around my knees, and in general do everything that would embarrass my teenage sons in front of their little friends.

And yet....

"Naw, Baby," I say. "I just need to accept the inevitable."

"I hate it when you get all noble!" she pouts.

"Are you kidding?" I retort. "Have you seen the discounts you get with these things?"