I guess I'm dying at 84

I'm no math wizard, but if my calculations are correct then I have officially hit my mid-life crisis which means I'm going to die at 84.

Men have it easy. Buy an inappropriate car, marry an inappropriate younger woman, train for a triathlon that will most likely kill them long before they get to reach their life expectancy.

But women, what do we do? Last time I checked Ferrari doesn't make minivans and if we get a younger man we just have to retrain them again like puppies.

I had this horrible realization recently that the first 42 years have been filled with a lot of living. School, college, career building, wifedom, motherhood, but what do the next 42 hold in store? My only child will be getting his own life sooner than I'd like to think about, so how do I make sure I get my own life too?

A rut. That's what it is.

I need a hobby. A passion. An interest that is not a requirement. Blogging used to be that. But, as you can tell by the cobwebs and dust that expelled from the page I'm certainly not passionate about that anymore.

Work. Well, that's challenging...and stressful, but a passion. No.

I could go on and on.

I envy my husband. He has tons of hobbies, which become mini-obsessions every time a new one starts. At the moment it's swimming. Up at 5:30 to swim laps at the local gym.

I'm not sure I'd wake up at 5:30 if the house was on fire.

But something is stirring. I feel a pull towards adolescence. My new playlist is packed with "grrrrr songs." Edgy. Loud. Angry. A radical change from the top hits crap I listen to when my son controls the dial.

Admittedly, it's pretty hard to feel like a badass blasting Linkin Park from a Prius as you pull out of the parking lot of the local grocery store. Still, adolescents want what they want, and they often look like total assholes trying to get it. Guilty as charged.

Yesterday I donned boxing gloves and with the help of my fantastic trainer slugged away with jabs and cross punches until my arms hung heavy. I felt like I could conquer the world. It was an amazing high.

I've decided to throw a dance party at a local restaurant. Girls only. A "Desperate (to dance) Housewives" party. Let's face it, I'm not schlepping into the city to stand pathetically in line behind the velvet rope to have the bouncer laugh in my face. Or worse, get in and try to gyrate next to a fetus in an outfit that is either a long tube top or a very short dress.

I don't want to wait until the Bar Mitzvah circuit starts two years from now only to have my son scarred for life by the sight of his mother shaking her groove thing with reckless abandon on the dance floor in between insipid games where cheap plastic beads are the grand prize.

I want to dance. Now. So what about a party that runs 8-10:30 on a Thursday night? Why not? So that's what I'm working on.

I have no idea where this mid-life...not crisis...exploration will take me. But for the first time in a long time I feel awake. And in control. And passionate.

I'd better enjoy it while it lasts. Plus, at my age, it's exhausting.