She continues. "Why would you want to upgrade? It's not like Business Cla.s.s is so much better. Why can't you sit with the rest of the tour? What if your upgrade puts you on a different flight? If I go, I'd definitely sit in Coach."

Upgrade it is.

Our session ends promptly at seven o'clock every week as Donatella has another cla.s.s directly after this one. We're all too courteous to linger because our time is up, so we quickly gather up our quaderni (notebooks) and, in my case, empty venti-sized Starbucks cup.

Except, of course, for Brunswick.

"Hey, can you check my homework from two weeks ago?" she asks, wedging in front of where I'm currently donning my coat. She thrusts the sheet toward Donatella's kind face, because, of course she does.

"You understand I have a cla.s.s waiting, yes?" Donatella asks.

"It won't take you long," Brunswick replies, flopping down in a chair next her.

I exit, making a mental note to look up the Italian word for douche bag.

As annoyed as I am, I still find myself smiling as I climb into my car. How am I concurrently so annoyed and yet still feel so happy?

As I drive home, I realize that the only thing I enjoy more than saying yes, checking items off my list, or learning Italian is having found a new nemesis.

Game on, doccia borsa.

Game on.

THE RECORD SHOWS I TOOK THE BLOWS.

Partway through the semester, Brunswick quits the cla.s.s. Our teacher relays she was too busy to make it on Monday nights. Doubt it. I bet with all the other hypermotivated students, she felt like she'd fallen behind and she couldn't catch up because it's impossible to learn something new when you never, ever once shut your word hole and open your ears.

She shan't be missed.

(Sidebar: I may miss her a little. I kind of loved actively hating her for sixty minutes every Monday. Now I need to find a new nemesis. I may go back to despising our mailman, as he's taken to leaving our mailbox open, but only when it's snowing or raining. I am thisclose to renting a PO box so I can up my battle properly with this a.s.sclown.) On our last night of cla.s.s, we discuss how Italians do Christmas. Apparently it's not nearly as commercial over there and the celebration is far more about food than presents, with loaves of raisin-studded panettone everywhere. Instead of beef tenderloin or roast turkey, the big holiday meal is all about the Feast of the Seven Fishes. Entire villages come out to rejoice together. They begin their partying on the day of the Immaculate Conception on December eighth, ending with the Epiphany on January sixth, and there are nativity scenes everywhere. I wonder if teenage boys are always stealing the baby Jesus in Italy, too. Or is it no fun because there are so many that it's all like shooting (seven) fish in a barrel?

Babbo Natale is the Italian version of Santa Claus but there's a character named La Befana who's also important. She's a good witch who rides around on her broom and fills Christmas stockings, usually on January sixth. In La Befana lore, she was mixed up with the Wise Men somehow, but I'm unclear on the hows and whys. I guess she's as plausible as a s.p.a.ce-time continuumbending rabbit bringing chocolate eggs to kids in multiple time zones at Easter or a rich, nocturnal fairy with a tooth fetish. In practical terms, it sounds like La Befana isn't a witch so much as she is a savvy shopper who waits till after the holiday to buy marked-down candy. Personally, I always snap up all the Christmas ornaments on December twenty-sixth because they go half off at Target that day. (If you wait until the twenty-seventh, all the best items are gone. I'm serious-set your alarm.) Donatella brings homemade tiramisu and we lose our minds over how she's made it both dense and velvety, but also so very airy, the whole concoction infused with the promise of espresso and liqueur. Then, fueled by sugar, Kahlua, and a compet.i.tive spirit, we play Tombola, which is basically Italian-style bingo. Instead of daubing our cards like we would in a VFW hall or church bas.e.m.e.nt, we cover the s.p.a.ces with large dried beans. I love how we use the same deck that Donatella's been playing with ever since her childhood. She's definitely connecting us with her personal history in a way I never experienced in a college cla.s.sroom. Again, this is the difference between voluntarily learning as an adult and taking a required cla.s.s for a grade in pursuit of a degree. Both have merits, but this way feels more meaningful.

Oh, and, I don't mean to brag, but I do win seventy-five cents over the course of the game, so . . . coffees are on me tonight.

The merriment of the year's last cla.s.s nicely kicks off the whole holiday season and I really want to celebrate. Every year, it's depressing to go from the full-court holiday press of glitter-s.p.a.ckled, mistletoe-hung, beribboned first floor to what looks like any other day upstairs in the family room, so I purchase a small artificial tree, adorning it with all the extra ornaments from last year's day-after-Christmas sale.

I figure I must truly be middle-aged now, having previously fought to the death over having a "fake tree." Yet I quickly adapt to not vacuuming up shed needles every fourteen minutes and not worrying the whole thing will spontaneously combust when I make a spark dragging my slipper-clad feet across the carpet. Plus, manufacturers have come a long way with the design and technology and these trees are so realistic! Gone are the days of green pipe cleaners stuck in a metal pole. I still have a live Frasier fir downstairs (and two fire extinguishers within grabbing distance) but I can imagine a time when I fully convert to artificial. When I do cross over, I suspect I'll also finally understand the allure of the decorative holiday sweater and earrings made out of jingle bells.

Feeling extra-festive, I decide to start baking early in the season. Thanks to Martha, I'm fully confident in my newfound culinary abilities, and inspired by Joanna's Twenty-Four Days of Christmas Cookies, I take to my kitchen with a metric s.h.i.t-ton of supplies, ready to craft cookies for everyone I've ever met. (Except my mailman.) This is the first year I've listened to BackSpin while baking-did you know there are actual holiday rap songs outside of RunD.M.C.'s "Christmas in Hollis," such as Snoop Dogg's "Santa Claus Goes Straight to the Ghetto," or Eazy-E's "Merry m.u.t.h.af.u.c.king X-Mas"? Believe it. Ensconced in a funky backbeat, I begin to make some elfin magic.

(Sidebar: Was the Keebler reference above too esoteric?) I'm vaguely disappointed when my first variety of cookies turns out badly, but sometimes that happens. My oven confuses me because there's a convection feature and I've been known to hit the wrong b.u.t.ton, usually when wine is involved or if I'm panicked before a dinner party. (Redundant?) But today, I'm having hot chocolate, so I chalk it up to bad luck.

Of course, when my entirely different second batch ends up crumbling and dry to the point of Saharan, I'm aggravated. It's possible I'm grooving too much to pay attention, but come on-it's hard to focus when MC Shan's rapping about Santa trading in his sleigh for a Lamborghini with a spoiler kit. Best visual ever!

I turn down the music and proceed with another recipe. I'm shocked and dismayed when I ruin the stupid spritz cookies. These are supposed to be idiot-proof, but apparently not. And when my fourth bunch, this time sugar cookies a.s.sembled from a tried-and-true recipe, look less like "snowmen" and more like "testicular cancer," I'm livid, especially because there's no one to blame here except myself.

I'm not sure if I got a bad container of baking powder or if perhaps I'm experiencing some kind of divine retribution because Christmas carols are no place for profanity (regardless of hilarity factor), but absolutely nothing works.

As everything I touch is a disaster, I decide to quit.

Here's the thing-I still could plow through my supplies, confident that eventually I'd come up with a cookie that's both attractive and tasty. But after four failures in a row, baking stopped being a treat and started to feel like a ch.o.r.e. I don't have customers waiting for this product and I have lots of other desserts planned for my annual party. Fletch won't lack for anything sugary during the holiday season. And every year when I stock the freezer with Fourth of July supplies, I end up tossing bags and bags of leftover holiday peanut b.u.t.ter kiss cookies and Mexican wedding cakes to make room.

What a waste of time, effort, and ingredients.

I don't need to make cookies.

I don't want to make cookies at this point.

So I have to ask myself, why continue to press on? Why push blithely forward toward that which is frustrating and fruitless? It's not like holiday baking was on my bucket list, and even if it was, the whole notion of having a bucket list isn't about crossing off various items, as much as I do love me some checkmarks.

The point of this project, and really, my overarching goal for the year, is to minimize that which I regret. When I review my teens and twenties, I'm mortified by so much of what I did. My more callous and cavalier actions haunt me. In my thirties, the regrets were less about bad behavior and more about terrible choices, some of which I'm still paying for. (h.e.l.lo, FICO score.) But in my forties, my greatest regrets have been less about the content of my character and more about my caloric intake. Otherwise, I've actively worked to get my s.h.i.t together, whether it's been adding culture to my life, or putting my house in order, or coming to terms with being an adult. I'm proud of my career and I love the people with whom I've surrounded myself. I've striven to make the right decisions, no matter how difficult, and agonized over cutting ties with those who are toxic. I feel like I'm far better for the effort. So every time I do something counterintuitive to that which keeps regrets at bay, I'm mad at myself.

Generation X turns fifty this year, as we're defined by a 1964 start date. Although I can't speak for my whole peer group, I can say for myself that by the time I hit my fifties, I hope to have my life figured out. When I'm fifty, I want my default mode to be doing the right thing, making the right choices, and behaving in a way that never makes me cringe upon further reflection.

My friend Laurie tells me that she used to knock herself out to provide the full Martha Stewart Christmas for her family, slaving away all day in the kitchen over the elaborate meal. When it came time to eat, she was not only exhausted, but she'd missed out on all the magical moments with her boys and her husband. When she hit fifty, she decided she was through-not with the family, but with the nonsense and the noise and the unrealistic expectations.

Now her ritual is to buy a bunch of HomeMade Pizza Co. unbaked pizzas and Three Tarts Bakery pies on Christmas Eve, so anything anyone has to do on the day itself is toss in the oven whatever type of pie they desire. Friends and extended family come over to play games and watch holiday movies, happy as can be in their ability to connect without all the pressure of what they "should" be doing. Laurie said that nothing's been more freeing than letting go of the picture-perfect magazine holiday fantasy, instead forging a path that's ultimately more satisfying.

I believe the pursuit of a Pinterest-perfect, ultimate-Martha Stewart-lifestyle can be dangerous. Online, I see these women in their thirties exhausting themselves to make sure everything they do is Instagram-worthy. Instead of, say, simply playing with their kids at the park, they have their spouses shooting virtual lifestyle magazine spreads, where each shot is staged for maximum impact.

"No, Trevor, wrong! You have to come down the slide smiling, not screaming!"

"Salinger, throw the maple leaves in the air again, but this time, with att.i.tude!"

"Maya, step out of the sandbox right now! You're going to get your Hanna Andersson play clothes dirty!"

For G.o.d's sake, childhood doesn't need to be art directed.

(Sidebar: As a friend, I'd humbly suggest that anyone who values their children's privacy and safety might reconsider splashing the kids' names, ranks, serial numbers, and difficulties with potty training all over the Internet.) To me, the above is why so much of social media can ring false. Our lives are meant to be our lives, and not a facade presented for the consumption of others; or, WE ARE NOT A MAGAZINE.

I worry that younger women are striving so hard to present a compelling story via images that they're ignoring the substance that makes the story true. Ultimately, they're going to end up really bitter later in life (and not the good kind of bitter that sells books).

My message to these women is this-if you want to avoid regrets later, give yourselves a break now and just be real. Enjoy the mess. Revel in the imperfection.

So, if I'm being real, then I can definitely say I won't be sad about not baking because I'm neither a mini-Martha-magazine-mogul nor a tree-dwelling, cookie-making elf.

(Sidebar: I feel like I just gave the previous Keebler joke more context. Yay for me!) I immediately sc.r.a.p the rest of my baking plans, instead opting to donate the ma.s.sive amount of supplies I've ama.s.sed. I supplement my unopened ingredients with additional items at the grocery store. I'm not sure if the food bank sees a lot of donated chocolate chips, colored sprinkles, or powdered sugar, but just because a family's. .h.i.t a rough patch doesn't mean they won't appreciate being able to bake with their kids. If someone's in a circ.u.mstance where they're using a food bank, it's likely not by choice. I'm sure regrets are involved and I empathize. Having once been close to the edge myself, I understand and I want to do what I can to make it better for others. And if providing the materials to make cookies gives a family a chance to feel normal and step outside of their regrets, even for one day, then I'm glad I could help.

After I swing by the grocery store and the food bank, I buy some pretty sugar cookies at Three Tarts, and then I come home to settle in with Holiday Inn, basking in the warm glow of my little artificial tree. Over subsequent free weekends, I spend my time decorating instead of baking, not because I'm determined to garner the most "pins," but because I hope to make the house as welcoming as possible for those I love.

I feel I made the right choice.

By the end of the holiday season, I realize I've put back on every ounce of weight I lost riding my bike, which is currently trapped in the garage behind three feet of snow. I won't be able to ride again for months, considering the h.e.l.lacious winter we're having. Even the most hard-core road warriors are currently in hibernation due to the bike paths being layered with six full inches of ice.

As it's a shiny new year, I decide that it's finally time to take care of some long-standing health concerns. I'm due for a well-woman exam and I'm worried that something may be amiss Down There. I'm not having any problems, per se, but with three contemporaries having had hysterectomies in the last year, I'm concerned it may be my turn, especially since I keep dodging bullets on my diagnostic mammograms. And at this age, it's generally one or the other. I wonder if the husbands who opted for vasectomies in their thirties are all, "Man, I shoulda held out a little longer!" because this seems to be a thing now that Generation X is. .h.i.tting our second act.

I'm definitely Team Take It All Out, I'm Not Using It if there's any kind of problem with my reproductive system. I'm at peace with my decision to not procreate. Fortunately, I've finally arrived at an age when people have stopped bugging me about when I'm going to become a mommy. I haven't heard a smug, "You'll change your mind," in at least three years. I don't miss the invasive questions; on the other hand, the fact that I must look like the factory's closed is a bit of a b.u.mmer.

(Sidebar: This feeling is similar to how every time I get carded, I wonder if it's my last.) Anyway, it's my understanding that if you don't eventually use your baby-brewing parts, all the pieces become an attractive nuisance, kind of like an abandoned building. Without the possibility of a paying tenant, the wrong element comes a-callin'. Squatters are imminent. Personally, I'd rather tear the whole thing down, you know? In this case, I couldn't plant a public park in its place, but you get the idea.

And while we're down here, a word, if I may, about perimenopause? Or, three words, actually-WHY, G.o.d, WHY? This hot flash business is utter and complete bulls.h.i.t. I mean, I'm a fat girl; I sweat enough on my own without Mother Nature turning up the thermostat. According to my medical education (meaning, using WebMD, which in my head translates to having an honorary medical degree) this foolishness can last two to eight years. What? A president could serve two full terms in eight years. Whatever crooked governor Illinois elects next could complete a prison sentence for money laundering and be out in eight years. You could build a federal highway or take a rocket to Jupiter in eight years.

This is so wrong.

And after I'm done with the potential eight d.a.m.n years of the sweating and the irritability and the weird estrogen surges, apparently I can look forward to bone loss, changes in my skin's texture-I'm sure not for the better-and problems with my gums. You mean, I could have a beard and require dentures? Perfect. Sign me up.

I haven't been hit with the night sweats yet, so I guess that's a blessing. A while ago, Fletch and I were hanging out with another couple (whom I choose to not incriminate) and my friend was telling us how she'd had all kinds of tests run to determine why she was getting so hot in her sleep.

"Hate to break it to you, but those are night sweats," I said, giving her the full benefit of my WebMD degree.

"How can I have night sweats? I'm only thirty," Friend replied, to which I laughed. This particular pal has been lying about her age for so long that she's actually begun to believe herself.

I fully support her pretense, but at the same time, facts are facts. We are middle-aged. This is what happens. All the same nonsense that comes with p.u.b.erty occurs again during perimenopause-the hormone surges, the moodiness, and the hair appearing where there wasn't hair before. Except instead of filling in under the arms and on nether regions, these coa.r.s.e follicles of hate are showing up on our freaking faces.

Every night before bed, I spend quality time over the bathroom sink with a handheld flashlight and some tweezers. I thought I'd been doing a fine job of Jenscaping until the last time I stayed in a hotel with a super-magnifying mirror. My G.o.d, I wanted to hurl myself out the window, except it was hermetically sealed, likely for this very reason. I suspect this is why we all lose our close-up vision by the time we're in our forties. If women could actually see what was happening on their faces, there'd be nothing to stop us all from going on a twelve-state killing spree.

(Sidebar: I'm fighting the need for reading gla.s.ses with every ounce of my being. I have my computer display jacked up two hundred percent and I've transitioned almost solely to my e-reader because I can make the font ma.s.sive. What really makes me mad, outside of the general indignity of beginning to deteriorate, even if ever so slightly, is that the print on every antiaging product is so d.a.m.n small. Listen, skin-care manufacturers, do you have any idea who actually buys your products? Hint-it's not the dewy twenty-year-olds with perfect skin who still pa.s.s out face-first wearing full makeup.) (Additional sidebar: I sorely regret having washed my face before bed only a handful of times in my twenties.) Ignoring me, Friend said, "It's not my thyroid, and it's not hyperhidrosis or hypoglycemia. There's no sign of infection and I'm not on any meds that might cause this reaction."

"It's perimenopause," I insisted.

"Impossible."

"Not impossible. Just because you say you're thirty doesn't mean you're thirty."

"Of course it does."

Ah, denial's deep in this one, I thought.

As she kept coming up with possible causes, I kept replying with my same diagnosis. I'm an imaginary doctor, d.a.m.n it! Listen to me!

Finally, Friend's Husband began to chuckle, saying, "I've been telling her for a month that she has night sweats because the bedroom is seventy-five degrees and she sleeps under three down comforters."

Then we both ganged up on him, because, sisterhood.

Anyway, I go to my well-woman exam and my new GYN suggests I have an ultrasound to make sure all is well. (I didn't like the gal I saw last year. Cold hands.) "Have you ever had a full ultrasound?" she asks.

"Um, sort of?" I reply. "Once I had one scheduled, but somehow I didn't drink enough water beforehand and they couldn't see anything."

She makes a note on my chart. "And how long ago was that?"

"1988."

My doctor is incredulous. "You've needed an ultrasound for twenty-five years?"

I shrug. "I've been busy."

This new doctor isn't playing around, no matter how many pretend medical credentials I may hold, so she schedules me for a full workup tomorrow.

Because I don't want to regret not tending to what's deemed medically necessary, I comply. Actually, as much as I loathe having to take off my pants, I'm a little bit, dare I say, excited to find what might be lurking up there. I definitely don't want to be sick and I'm terrified of surgery, having never been under general anesthesia, but what if they discover a really big fibroid? Like, super weighty. That happened to an acquaintance-her doctors removed something the size of a football.

A football!!

How much thinner would I be if I had a football-sized ma.s.s extracted from my midsection? What if I'm not fat because of cake and it's all due to squatters? Granted, fibroids wouldn't explain the ham on my upper arms, but still. This could resolve everything, so I gladly come back the next morning.

I drink an entire gallon of water before my appointment and I feel like I'm carrying a football's worth of fluid when I sit on the tech's exam table.

She asks, "Have you emptied your bladder?"

"No!" I gleefully reply. "It's so full!"

"Then I need to have you use the restroom first."

"Really? I thought I was supposed to drink a ton of fluids before," I reply.

"No, we haven't done it that way for years."

Probably twenty-five.

I take care of business and then we begin. The tech squirts the jelly on me and I'm delighted that it's not freezing. "We use a warmer," she explains.

"Well done," I reply. Five Yelp stars go to the office that understands that there are places you never want to be chilly.

She first surveys the external parts and then uses the trans-I-can't-even-use-the-word-without-spelling-it-wand. "Hmm."

"Hmm?" I ask. Hmm is never positive . . . unless she's discovering something the size of a sporting good, which I can have removed and then finally wear a bikini again! "Do you see any footb.a.l.l.s?"

"Footb.a.l.l.s? No, no footb.a.l.l.s, but I have a couple of areas I'd like the doctor to see. I'm going to go grab her." She exits, leaving me to contemplate buying pants that don't have elastic waists.

In the exam room next to me, I detect an odd sound. It's like a mechanical whump-whump, whump-whump. The sound continues for a couple of seconds, followed by a quick murmur, then a cheer and then sobbing. I realize I'm witnessing a pregnant couple hearing their unborn child's first heartbeat.

Whoa.

This is a rite of pa.s.sage I never imagined experiencing, even secondhand. As the couple celebrates next door, I a.s.sess how I'm feeling. I always say I'm at peace with being childfree by choice, but am I?

Am I really?

Or, in this completely unexpected moment, am I finding myself suddenly devastated to have completely avoided this track in life? Do I yearn, even for a second, to be on the opposite side of the wall? Do I want to Instagram the h.e.l.l out of a mini-me? Am I sorry that the miracle of life isn't occurring in the portion of my body specifically designed for the propagation of our species?

I look deeply within to gauge my feelings, and . . .

No.

I'm not.

While I'm elated for the couple next door, as their joy is profound and contagious, more than anything, I feel a comprehensive swell of relief that it's not me.