Where do I get my $4.99 gingko biloba?

The Angel of Death passed over me this spring.

I turned 50, yet not a word from the AARP, the country’s largest nonprofit lobbying group for seniors.

I’ve always heard their membership card mysteriously arrives in the mail during your 50th year, the one Harbinger of Aging both certain and sure.

But my birthday passed this spring without a word. Every envelope from AARP shows up addressed to my husband, who turned 50 a couple of years ago. It can only mean one thing: I’ve escaped. I’m immortal. I’m home free.

Just to be sure, I make a couple of calls to find out.

Lauren Moughon, the Seattle AARP advocacy director, sounds shocked.

“I’ve heard the joke that we never need to worry about Osama Bin Laden,” she says. “When he turns 50, AARP will find him.”

So does this mean I’ll never die?

“It probably does,” she concedes.

I try out an alternative theory. Maybe the card did arrive this spring only to be stolen from my mailbox by some local meth addict.

I imagine Darrell, a scrawny fellow with exceedingly bad teeth brandishing my AARP card all over the Internet. He’s ordering up $4.99 ginkgo biloba and pairs of Giant Nippers for $12.99 apiece. Even as we speak, he’s giddy over the prospect of a $9.95 eyeglasses case with a Welsh corgi in needlepoint.

These bargains and much more may belong to this meth head, while he cheats me out of not only my immortality, but countless savings to boot.

“That’s an interesting theory,” Moughon says. She promises to call me back.

A few hours later, we speak once again.

This time the director of advocacy transforms into the Oracle of Wisdom. She starts with the bad news.

It’s likely that the answer lies in my husband’s membership card. AARP’s so clever, it’s probably already listed me as an auxiliary member.

“You may not have dodged the Angel of Death,” she says. “I’m really sorry. We’re just leaving you alone here for the time being.”

But how does AARP know we’re turning 50 at all?

“We obtain lists from a variety of places,” she says vaguely. But not the Social Security Administration, she quickly adds.

I mention I’d heard they tap voter registration lists.

“I just plain don’t know, and I think it’s also to some extent a secret,” she says.

I change the subject. The prospect of new deals on dental insurance and folding Victorian walking sticks doesn’t enhance my birthday joy, I explain.

The Oracle of Wisdom does her best to perk me up.

“I truly believe — and AARP believes — that 50 is the new 30, she says. “You’ve had the first part of your life to grow and make mistakes and learn lessons. Now you have this beautiful second half of your life to learn from your mistakes and live all over again.”

It sounds pretty good… But wait: Just how old is this woman on the other end of the phone?

“I’m 37,” she says. “I just turned.”

It’s easy to be philosophical about aging in your 30s, I pout. You haven’t gotten there yet.

Moughon does her best to comfort me. Maybe, she concedes, there’s a chance she won’t find 50 so peachy herself— especially if she’s still single.

Anecdotally, she’s heard Baby Boomers often recoil in horror when their AARP card arrives in the mail. But once they get over the initial blow, they renew their membership in astounding numbers, she says, and wind up really, truly loving the organization. It offers discounts on LaQuinta Inns and Carnival Cruises, hip new publications about staying sexy forever and plenty of advocacy on Social Security and Medicare.

I ignore her and continue to whine. I don’t want to mark my first-half century with a fistful of ads for adjustable beds and walk-in bathtubs.

Then the Oracle of Wisdom speaks up.

“You’ve got two choices,” she says firmly. “You can accept it gracefully, or you can rage against the dying of the light.”

Her words splash me like ice water. Curiously, I begin to feel better.

I remember I’m heading to a celebration of my grandfather’s 100th birthday this week. He still lives in the home he built in 1933, he still relishes a good martini and he’s still, deep at heart, a ladies’ man. I tell Moughon all about him.

“Oh, you’ve got some good genes, my friend,” she says. “AARP wants you to know you’ve got another fabulous 50 years ahead of you.

I’ve been busted. I can’t escape the Angel of Death.

And now that I’ve called them, I’m told I can expect to receive my new membership card in about two weeks.

A not-so-secret amulet for the road ahead.