I was minding my own business a few weeks ago when I got “the call” -- that dreaded¹, shrill² ringing of my telephone bearing news just short of a death in the family. It was a former high school classmate asking my assistance in our 20-year class reunion.

Could it be 20 years already? I shuddered³. Cold chills went up and down my spine⁴ as tiny beads⁵ of sweat popped out on my forehead. What had I done with my life the past 20 years? My mother told me I’d have to deal with this some day, but I had laughed it off, just like I laughed off those embarrassing pink plastic curlers she used to wear in her hair. (I picked up a set at a garage sale just last week. Got a great deal on them, too!)

It’s amazing how a brief phone call can totally turn one’s life upside down. Suddenly, I began hearing those 1970s songs (now known as “oldies”) in a different arrangement, realizing that Mick Jagger was over 50, “Smoke on the Water” never did make any sense at all, and my “Seasons in the Sun” had literally⁶ faded into oblivion. Had the sun set on me already?

I glanced in the mirror. (Okay, I stared in the damned mirror.) I examined every tiny little crevice⁷ and pore, starting with my hairline, down past those patronizing “smile lines” to the base of my neck. No double chin yet, I thought.

The next few weeks were pure hell. Each day began with a grueling training program -- a 6:30 a.m. run in a futile⁸ attempt to bounce off that unsightly baggage that had somehow accumulated on my thighs⁹ overnight. I went shopping for the perfect dress -- you know, the one that would make me look 20 years younger. I found out that they stopped selling them around 1975. Three dresses later, I came to my senses. There was only one logical explanation: I was having a mid-life crisis.

I realized that the funny, crunching¹⁰ noise I heard each night as I climbed the stairs was really my knees. I had seriously considered adding potty training to my resume as one of my greatest accomplishments¹¹. Bran flakes¹² had become a part of my daily routine -- and not because they were my favorite cereal. I held Tupperware parties just so I could count how many friends I had.

Life just hadn’t turned out the way I’d planned. Sure, I was happy. I had a wonderful husband and two great kids in the center of my life. But somehow, working part-time as a secretary and mom hardly fit my definition of someone my classmates had voted as “most likely to succeed.” Had I really wasted 20 years?

Just about the time I was ready to throw in the towel and my invitation, my seven-year old tapped me on the shoulder. “I love you, Mom. Give me a kiss.”

You know, I’m actually looking forward to the next 20 years.