I think I mentioned recently that I’m coming up on my fortieth birthday in a few weeks. (If I didn’t, hey, kids, guess what? I’m turning 40 soon!) I’m not real happy about it. In fact, I’m trying my damnedest not to drive everyone within earshot crazy by having a stereotypical breakdown and mid-life crisis — there are few things as disheartening as realizing you’re acting like a total cliche — but I have to tell you that it’s pretty tough maintaining an air of cool, collected indifference toward your advancing age when you start receiving junk mail from the AARP. That’s the American Association of Retired Persons for you young people who may not know of it.

Now, I do occasionally receive mail that’s intended for my father. We share the same first name and we did share the same address for a very long time. So my first thought when I spotted the AARP’s logo on the business-size envelope in my hand was that it must be something for him. But no, it was plainly addressed to “Mr. Jason Bennion.” Which would be me. No room for error there.

Compelled by morbid curiosity, I slit it open… and discovered within an official membership card emblazoned with the same pre-printed “Mr. Jason Bennion.” The accompanying letter instructed me how to register my membership and described the fabulous benefits I can receive by doing so today.

But I’m only 40, for god’s sake! You know, the new 30? Isn’t that what all the magazines have been calling it lately? Or was that just a passing fad and they’ve decided 40 is over the hill after all? Whatever will make us insecure enough to buy this month’s issue, right? Right?

Ah, geez… I suddenly feel the need to slip into a cardigan and pop a Geritol.