Captain's Log

Constant reminders are there every morning when I awaken: dull headache, stiff back, creaky right knee, numbness in my left leg, and a throbbing in my right elbow on account of the cumulative physical abuse over the years that is finally taking its toll on my middle-age body.

A good stretch relieved most of the stiffness, blunts the pain, and clears my head of the cobwebs that come from restless sleep.

More reminders -- perhaps more subtle than the first ones -- await me as I gaze at my grizzled facade in the bathroom looking glass.

My mirror image stares back at me without apology. It reveals a little less light in the eyes, wrinkles and lines, a slightly off-skew nose. My body no longer resembles that of a onetime three-sport athlete: more paunch than punch would be a fair assessment.

A stampede of thoughts rumbles across my cerebral landscape, competing for the prime real estate of my frontal lobe.

"You're not getting older, you're getting better" is the first to stake its claim. Ugh! Please, it's too early for clich‚s.

Next in line is "I am what I am." Great. Popeye the Sailor Man couldn't have said it better. Still, it's close, but not quite right. Then, "I am what I've become" plants itself.

That seems to make more sense to my caffeine-starved brain. I rationalize my state of being; it's not like I tore my knee up playing football, broke my nose in a pickup basketball game, suffered a concussion in a ski-slope crash, ruptured a disc in my back, and got elbow tendinitis on purpose. (As Einstein really meant to say about his theory of reality: "Stuff happens.")

A cup of coffee sates my craving, helps me put aside such thoughts and gets me energized. After a shave and a shower, I begin to feel like a new man. I'm ready to face the day and go to work.

On my way in, as part of my daily routine, I stop to pick up an Oregonian and get the mail. In my portal, I find the usual junk mail lying intimately in contact with bills to be paid and my daughters' subscriptions to Seventeen and YM.

In the junk is an envelope addressed to me from the Office of the Executive Director/AARP.

Now why is the head of the Washington, D.C.-based American Association of Retired Persons sending me something, anything? I'm 45, nowhere near retirement age, let alone retirement.

At the office, after booting up my computer and checking my e-mail, I tear open the AARP envelope to still my curiosity.

Inside I find an AARP Membership Registration form and temporary membership card under the heading "Welcome to AARP!"

These are accompanied by an explanation of membership benefits and privileges I'm eligible to receive. It's signed by William D. Novelli, AARP's executive director.

It begins with the salutation, "Dear Friend," and concludes by saying, "I look forward to your joining us as an AARP member."

Thinking there's got to be a catch, I flip the registration form over. Under the heading "Guarantee of Acceptance" I find what I'm looking for: "Your admission to AARP membership is guaranteed as long as you are 50 or over, whether you are working or retired."

Not trusting what I've read, I log on to AARP's website for verification. Sure enough, the "Join Now" link spells it out like it is: "Anyone 50 or over can get all the great benefits of membership in AARP for only $12.50 a year!"

I can do the math. I'm still five years shy of meeting AARP's key eligibility criterion. But I find no solace in that truth.

Instead, the fact I received the solicitation -- that somebody out there thinks I'd make a good member -- makes me feel old, again.

So much for that morning's hard work to put all those reminders of my aging behind me. Next thing I know, I'll probably receive a solicitation from the Purple Cross encouraging me to buy funeral insurance.

From now on, I think I'll let Elaine get the mail.

"Dance as if no one's watching, sing as if no one's listening, and live every day as if it were your last." -- Irish proverb