Unlike many of my friends, I have never fretted over becoming a year older.  I seamlessly transitioned from one year to the next without a bump in the birthday road.  I aspired to the thought that age is just a number and nothing more, and so, my 50th birthday came and went without much vexation.

Until a few days ago…  {cue the sad violin music}

when I got the mail…

there was an envelope…

and in it was an application…

{gulp}

from AARP.

Yes, that AARP – the American Association of Retired People.

And just like that, AARP sh*t on my 50th birthday and all my seamless birthday transitioning came to a screeching and abrupt end.  My mind reeled.  Surely, this had to be a mistake.  Some sort of colossal joke.  But, there it was in black and white… something about prescriptions and social security and eyeglasses…  oh, and a free gift (for ruining my “age is just a number” delusion, no doubt).

After several hours of sulking (and the consumption of an entire family-size bag of Middlesworth BBQ potato chips), I ran the AARP application through the shredder and decided that nothing will ever make me act my age.  I will still wear concert t-shirts, listen to rock music way too loud, curse like a drunken sailor, inappropriately embarrass my kids in public and perpetually believe that I am 23 years old.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to flash my boobs to the mailman.