I thought I was hiding my age well by occasionally blowing soda out of my nose, getting an iPod surgically implanted in my ears and telling people my bald spot was just the result of a home improve-ment accident.

The jig is up, however, because my invitation to join the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) arrived yesterday (you can join when you are 50). Their invitation beat my 50th birthday by five days (how the heck did they know?) – and my mother’s card by two days. Whatever else this means it means the cute 20-somethings in my fan club will probably find another sexpot columnist to swoon over.

Since I am a special guy about to celebrate a special day there are a few things I want for my birthday, to wit:

. more years to be added to my 50s – I don’t mind being in them but they are uncomfortably close to my 60s, and that sounds a bit older than I want to be;

. credit for several years off my age since I still laugh at flatus jokes – I think that makes me 42;

. some Chip’s O’Granite Facial Scrub from Macho Boy Cosmetics, to give my features the chiseled look that makes some men age so handsomely (not that I am aging, but in case that turns out to be me in the mirror);

. the right to conduct the annual physical exams of anyone who gives someone turning 50 black balloons or Geritol for our birthdays. You know who you are, you may show up in my ER some day, and I will remember you;

. my wife to tell me I have a cute tushie for another 30 years. If she has her way I believe my headstone will read, “Here lies a guy with a great tush,” and rightly so;

. for God to keep pushing the age at which bad things can suddenly happen to your heart, prostate, etc., at least 10 years out from whatever age I am. I love my life and it would tick me off to have it end before I am ready;

. to be Warren Buffett’s long lost love child, since he has more money than Germany. Bill Gates would also do;

. a sharp hand plane, and wood to smooth with it. I want to thank whoever gave me the gift of loving the whisper of a sharp plane shaving thin billows of curling wood off a board and leaving a wake of smooth grain behind;

. a study to come out proving that watching professional football shrinks your prostate before the darn thing wrings your (bladder) neck. God must be a woman that some gland related to a man’s sexual function can be such a pain in your down under;

. a day with my father, who died when I was 7, and with whom I have things I want to talk about son to father, dad to dad, and man to man. And I want to play golf with him, just nine holes, early in the morning when the light is low, the dew jewels the greens, and important talk seems to come easily from the heart. I suppose I just have to count myself lucky to have had a father I miss, because not everyone does;

. an endless supply of warm summer nights of driving through rural Maine with the music blaring, all the windows down, and my wife running her fingers through the hair on the back of my head. Every car is a Porsche, every song is your favorite, and every love is forever at such moments;

. that this love is forever;

. to write a book before I am 52, which I am going to do. Publishers may sign up now. Working title: “It’s All About Me – As It Should Be.” Just kidding, but not about the book. Save me a date, Oprah;

. to always be able to express myself in the written word, until that day I leave for my first shift in Heaven’s ER;

. to always be someone worth talking to;

. to be able to hold a loved one’s hand any time I want;

. for my children to be safe and happy in the world, and for something to comfort those whose children are not;

. to keep getting a little smarter, a little wiser, a little more perceptive every year. If you are smart you let every year older plane you a bit smoother;

. that the Car Talk boys talk forever. If they don’t make you laugh when you listen you have a kink in your emotional colon. If you don’t ever listen pull your head out of your tailpipe and tune into your public radio station at 10 a.m. on Saturday mornings. Those of you who have not bought me a new tool for my birthday can give me the gift of your tuning in then instead, so we can laugh together, for laughter shared is a great gift;

. a change in the laws of physics to prevent my drive from slicing like a 230-yard banana, or a change in the rules of golf so I can carry a darn big chainsaw in my golf bag. I have never hit a drive that could not be made perfect with a Husqvarna chainsaw, a skidder and a good, swift kick;

. another 50 years, because you all have made the first 50 pretty darn nifty, for which I am more thankful than you will ever know.

Erik Steele, D.O., a physician in Bangor, is chief medical officer of Eastern Maine Healthcare Systems and is on the staff of several hospital emergency rooms in the region.