I don’t know how they knew, but they can leave me alone, and they can keep their free insulated trunk organizer. My trunk doesn’t need their help, it’s organized just fine thank you very much. They can keep their discounts, their resources, their magazine, and whatever else they seem to think I need now.

Now that I’m 50. There, I said it.

I will give them credit, they are prompt. Promptly premature, like a vulture taking a peck while you’re still dragging your sun damaged wind burnt carcass towards the oasis in the distance. Maybe, like that vulture, they know (or think they know) that that oasis in the distance is a mirage? “Go ahead, keep crawling if you like, but you’re not going anywhere. Might as well slip on your socks and sandals and go organize your trunk.”

A few weeks prior to the half-century point from the day of my birth, a day that legend has it, was much harder on my mother than myself, I opened the mailbox to find a letter addressed to me. A letter in a gray envelope, the very same shade of gray that has taken over the paltry remanence of my once dark, voluminous, and luxurious head of hair. So it goes.

In the upper left corner of this somber gray envelope, in print large and bold enough for aged eyes to decipher, were the letters AARP. The American Association for Retired Persons sent me a card that read, “Welcome to the 50’s Club”. As if that wasn’t generous enough, accompanying the card was an offer for a “FREE Insulated Trunk Organizer”. Free, with my paid $16 one-year membership.

They offered a $63 5-year membership for those that are optimistic about their longevity on the other side of 50. A “limited time offer” that I will most likely be offered every other week from now until my demise.

Thanks, but no thanks. Other than the 109 Club, I’ve never been much for clubs. Clubs come with rules, regulations, policies, procedures, satin jackets or leather vests with your name stitched on them, and worst of all…meetings. I joined a 4-H Club when I was 12, but after a couple of gatherings, it was kindly suggested that Travis Chrest and myself not return. We obliged.

The 50’s club? Why would I want to hang around with a bunch of old people? People in elastic-waist pants sitting around on donut pillows blathering on endlessly about how organized their trunks are, complaining about the exorbitant price of celery, and exalting the comfort and fashion sense of white New Balance tennis shoes…with the Velcro closures.

Social connection is an important component of successful aging and overall life satisfaction, but the AARP can stick their “Welcome to the 50’s Club” card in their trunk. I don’t care if that oasis in the distance might be a mirage. I don’t trust vultures, I’ll keep crawling and find out for myself.

For those of you crawling with me, those of you in this ragtag group of pre-elders whose life of youthful exploits doesn’t yet seem like an unattainable lifetime ago, keep on keepin' on, and repeat after Toby, “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.”

Carry on.