When does a woman become a cougar?

40? 39? And do you get extra "cougar free" years if you get carded?

Those are the questions I pose in my current Facebook headline. It's mostly a sardonic observation, but it probably won't surprise you to learn that I turned 39 on Saturday.

I've never really dated younger men. Not sure I'm going to. But evidently "cougar" now means any single woman above the age of 40 (age taken from internet "research").

OK. So let me get this straight.

My early 30s were all about the stereotypical baby clock. But evidently my late 30s were supposed to be about the cougar clock.

I'll synchronize my special "cougar" watch. Goodness, I'm awfully behind in my preparation. Good thing I have helpful information like the tip below, taken from an article on msnbc called "5 tips to being a sexy cougar."

Thanks MSNBC! I'm so relieved to hear that it's OK to be a cougar just as long as I maintain a preternaturally young appearance.

clipped from www.msnbc.msn.com Age is just a number. That’s the most important thing. These women are redefining what aging looks like. Because they eat well, exercise and do everything necessary to maintain a healthy balance in their life, 40, 50 or 60 never looked so good.

No, Mom, my eggs went bad, remember?

Recently I went home to Delaware to visit my parents.

Over a breakfast bowl of cereal and apropos of nothing, Mom asks:

“Do you think you’ll ever have your own children?”

Me: “Um, no. It’s too late. Basically biologically impossible.”

Mom: “Huh. Is that because of your PCOS ?"

[PCOS or polycystic ovary syndrome, is an endocrine and reproductive disorder that, among other things, makes it difficult to get pregnant]

Me: “Um, yeah.”

What I didn’t say is this:

“Remember that REALLY IMPORTANT conversation I had with my gynecologist around the time I turned 37? The conversation that kind of changed how I envisioned the rest of my life? It went a little something like this?”

Free parking space! Not.

So, Friday morning, I'm having coffee in Old Town with my friend Chris, and we hung out for about an hour and a half. Then we parted ways for our respective cars.

As I approached my car I notice: MY BACK LICENSE PLATE IS MISSING!!

I can't swear that it didn't happen earlier while it was parked on my street, but I think I would have noticed it when I got into the car that morning. The irony, assuming that it was stolen on Cameron Street is that I didn't park in a garage or even at a meter on a more populated street because that spot was FREE. Not anymore!
I reported it to the police, so the plates are registered as stolen. But I'll have to replace them, because even as I type this, I'm imagining thieves in a scary masks on a major heist using my plate on their getaway car.

Plus the DMV requires it. And I have to go there in person and everything!

That was one expensive parking space.

On a positive note, being between jobs means I have plenty of time to stand in line....

All we can do is keep breathing

I wrote this a while ago, intending to post it to some anonymous depression-focused blog I created, but it's part of who I am (sometimes) and I think it really belongs on the Chronicles. I don't feel the need to be anonymous anymore.

I like "Grey's Anatomy." I think at its best, the show can be genuinely moving. It's no "Buffy"--pondering the nature of good and evil and what it means to have a soul. But definitely glimpses of the simultaneous fragility and resilience of the human heart.

I also really like its music. I'll leave it to others to analyze what that says about my hipness or lack thereof, but I enjoy what I find. And sometimes I find pieces that resonate. Like the song I currently can't get out of my head: "Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michaelson:

I want to change the world. Instead, I sleep.

Wow, did that catch my attention the first time I heard it. Not that my aspirations were ever quite that lofty, but there are things I thought I would do and I haven't. Projects I want to do, but don't. Specifically, this current relapse has been all about apathy. A lack of desire and energy to do anything but keep body and soul (and my dog) together. Like the song goes on to say:

All that I know is I'm breathing.

Pretty grim, right? And it's definitely felt like that sometimes. Full on episodes of that scary nothingness that is woven into the fabric of depression--what I like to call "the abyss." But I also find another meaning in the song--a subtle shift in the lyrics:

All I can do is keep breathing

Like, as long as I'm breathing, anything is possible.

Breath, in various contexts, is kind of a personal touchstone. Like another song I picked up from Grey's: "Breathe (2 AM)." The tension--musically and lyrically--continuously intensifies, as life throws itself at the narrator, building into a crescendo. The movement and urgency are reminiscent of developing panic attack. Pulse racing, brain sprinting as you try to just hold it together. And then you remember:

Breathe, just breathe.

Taking deep, measured breaths has been a major coping mechanism for me for so long, and while sometimes, during really sustained bouts of panic, only a little valium will do, I like the reminder that sometimes it's possible to just pause and slow it down a few beats.

Or, as the great philosopher and poet Paul Hewson (aka Bono) would say:

And if the night runs over

And if the day won't last

And if your way should falter

along the stony pass

it's just a moment

this time will pass.

Die, rodent, die!

You know your life is seriously out of balance when you keep having to interrupt your work freak out/my-therapist-has-been-out-of-town-for-weeks call to your father in order to yell, "shit!" "get away!" and "goddamn mice!" at a particularly bold rodent headed for your dog's water bowl.

All of this while you're waiting for the valium to kick in.