There's gotta be a math error somewhere in this, I know there is.

The husband is taking all the fun out of my midlife crisis. Since we have a few more years between us than the usual couple, he isn't at all impressed that I'm within frostbite distance of 40. He passed that a long time ago.

I don't feel this old. I just feel like me, which according to my internal mirror is somewhere in my late twenties. After all, wasn't I supposed to have it all figured out by now? Wasn't I supposed to be this serene earth mother/nature goddess type, patiently guiding my teenagers with humor and wisdom?

OK, so my younger dreams of the future weren't too realistic. As if yours were.

Humph. So there.

I saw a book in the store the other day, a guide to midlife crisis for the middle-aged woman. "A must-read for every woman over 35!" was splashed across the cover. My first glance just swept over the book, registering and dismissing it as something for an older woman.

And then it hit me. Over 35? Me? I was a member of their target market? Oh. My. Very bad. Very, very bad.

Me, middle-aged? Well, I guess. Technically. I mean, if you want to make something of it. After all, my high school reunion is coming up. 20 years.

Oh, my.

The husband has no sympathy and just laughs at me when I start to talk about it.

He's no fun at all.