It’s not the age…it’s the square-footage

When exactly is middle-age? Since we (happily) don’t know the time of our own death, theoretically any one of us could be middle aged at any moment. Still, in your heart of hearts, you know when you’ve hit it for yourself.

I had thought my middle age came a couple of years ago, when I stood up and my knee cracked like a shot. But that wasn’t it. Then I thought it might have arrived this past winter, when I developed this annoying tendency to freeze into position in bed, unable to turn over without my hips screaming. But that could be because I think of the gym the way a lapsed Catholic thinks of church – guilt without motivation.

But truly, truly, middle age arrived this morning. My husband was in the shower and I was lazing in bed for a few more minutes before springing into the morning routine. A little lull for reminiscing. And I realized, to my horror, that I was playing over past regrets in my mind.

Nothing terribly middle aged about that, right? We all have regrets. But what brought my life to its screeching middle with terrifying certainty was the nature of my regrets. Was I questioning why I had broken up with a college boyfriend who was trying to reconcile with me? Not really. We were a terrible match. What about the time I forgot my best friend’s birthday and lost her friendship? Well, a little, but as my best friend, surely she knew I have an awful memory.

No, as I lay there replaying the tape, the big regret of my life is…missed real estate opportunities. The time I was living in a sweet one-bedroom on 68th and Madison that went co-op and I thought the insider price -- $150,000 – was highway robbery! I could’ve flipped that thing for at least a million four years later. But I was young. And really, really dumb. And before that? The building owner had offered me rental of the penthouse. The penthouse! And I said no, because it had a higher rent. But it was a two-bedroom! Am I the only idiot who never heard of getting a roommate!!!
My poor children. They are going to get pushed and prodded and probably suckered into one shaggy real estate deal after another all through their lives to make up for my folly. Of course, I can’t feel too bad. My father in law once turned down an apartment in the Dakota for $75,000. I bet the moment he realized his mistake was the moment he turned middle aged, too.

Happy Hallmark Day!

What should we be calling Valentine’s Day? National Hallmark Day? National Chocolate Industry Support Day? I couldn’t believe the lines outside Godiva – they had stanchions up to handle the crowd – stanchions! Outside a candy store! (Okay, they were giving away a diamond necklace with the candy, but how many people actually expected to win it? Life isn't that much like a box of chocolates.)
So I skipped it and went to the card store…and oh let me tell you. Picking out a card now is like a science. It's not just a question of where you want to land on the sentimental scale. (Rhymes + Cartoon Husbands VS. Poetry + Gold Lace Edging.)
It’s that the categories of card recipients have metatasized. There are cards To my son…To my mother-in-law…To my Co-worker. My husband noticed when he went to get my card that the entire section marked “To My Husband” was completely empty…but that when he walked around to the side marked “To My Wife” there was a full selection. Which tells you everything about the romantic life of American couples.

But the absolute best was a valentine…(drumroll) From the Cat. From the Cat. You gotta wonder whether you buy that for yourself from your own cat or whether you send it to your pitiful, pitiful friend from her cat. Either way, it’s just too depressing. If you’re even thinking of buying a Valentine’s card to yourself from your cat please take my advice and buy the big Russell Stover Heart shaped assortment of chocolates instead. Say that that’s from the cat. Much better.

Kryptonite

My children have, from time to time, fixed their own breakfasts, run their own baths, packed their own clothes – even done their homework on their own. They have played quietly with others, held doors, said thank you and used the proper utensils.

How do I know this? Other people have told me about it. Teachers, sitters, grandparents, have all reported that my kids are delightful and self-reliant. Me? I wouldn’t know.

When I’m around, my super-children suddenly go to pieces. I swear, you’d think their arms fell off – and how can they pick out their clothes with no arms?!?!?!? They could make breakfast, but gee, I just pour the milk better.

The minute I show up, homework translates itself into a foreign language, bath temperatures fluctuate wildly, clean clothes disappear and shoes won’t tie. (Could I have a nickel please for every time my son has screamed “stupid shoes!!”? I’ll send him to college on it. I promise.)

All desires and powers to be self-reliant drain away in my company.

What could cause the total collapse of meine klinen kinder? There is only one logical explanation.

I'm kryptonite. Just as the slightest exposure to this menacing mineral turns Superman into a helpless blob, so my mere presence is enough to turn my happy, capable children into howling babies. With no arms.

The classic approach (according to DC Comics) would be to encase them in lead. Or, wait, is it me who should be encased in lead? (And if so, can I sleep?)

Sigh. If anyone discovers a cure, kindly send it along.