I had a boss once whose most embarrassing moment happened while she was standing in the security line at the airport after she handed her ID and boarding pass to the security guard. It was worse, she said, than what happened to the woman ahead of her who’d packed a bunch of sex toys into her carry-on and was then pulled out of line for a random, and very public, bag search.

The guard holding my boss’ credentials noted she’d just celebrated her birthday, and then did some quick math.

“Holy cow, you’re FIFTY?”

She’d wanted to sink into the floor, her worst fear being someone calling her out for her age. Or maybe it was actually being fifty, I’m not sure. I never asked for clarification.

Last week at the dinner table, our eleven year-old referred to his dad and me as ‘middle aged,’ which brought me up short.

“We are seriously NOT middle aged.” I said, working up a huff. This isn’t the eighties and I am not Bonnie Franklin (who was, incidentally, younger on One Day at a Time than I am now. That and the fact I now can’t get that song out of my head is probably going to bug me all day).

Colin pointed out that we’re indeed halfway to the ripe, old age of 90, which in his estimation is ‘middle.’