I have NEVER been one to shy away from celebrating my birthday.  Never.  People, I LOVE my birthday.  I restrain myself to only begin the countdown 30 days before and bask in the afterglow of my birthday for at least a week… or two… or three… much to my husband’s dismay.

However fine I may be with being 46, I am filled with more than a bit of anxiety at the realization that I am officially middle-aged.  Seriously, people, I am middle-aged.  MIDDLE-AGED!

What in God’s name does being MIDDLE-AGED even mean?

Is it coyly blushing when asked for my identification when buying alcoholic beverages?

I don’t care if the young ‘un behind the counter is just following company policy… it still counts… doesn’t it?

Is it the sweet feeling my junior high kiddos give me with their aghast reactions that I couldn’t possibly be that old?

Or is it their disbelief when they announce that I am way older than their parents?

Is it the reality of still battling all my adolescent insecurities that grew up with me?  Or is it feeling more confident with who I am warts and all?

Truthfully, it more or less depends on the day.

On my good days, the magic of my years of accrued wisdom give me the ability to say Eff It and talk myself down from the ledge when those paralyzing knots of doubt and anxiety threaten to undo me.

On those bad days, well… even people slowly growing older beat themselves up unnecessarily.

Is it cringing when my youngest asks me sweetly, “Mommy, how old are you going to be when I am a daddy?”

To which the elder responds, “She’ll be dead.”

Taking preventative measures, I have grounded them until they are 40.  To which the elder added, “Geez, Mom, by then you’ll be infinity dead.”

This child… this child!  I’ve often thought that he may be the death of me, but apparently he’s already planning it.

I certainly don’t have it figured out quite yet.  Upon reflection, I think I am doing okay… more or less.  I have no desire to turn back time or change any of the life experiences that have shaped the woman I am today.  But, honestly, I can begrudgingly say… that I am … more or less… okay… with saying… I am a woman of an age that fits into a category many – including every dictionary and medical resource I have consulted – wish to label as… dammit…  middle-aged.