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.
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.
posted by Whoopla at
11:04 AM
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