Their message is clear: It's not too late.

No one's giving up. No one's done. Sure, the tread on our tires is a little more worn than when brand-new, but that doesn't mean we can't get where we want to go. There's a real danger of hitting this age and just . . . petering out. I always find it disconcerting to walk into people's houses where literally nothing has changed in thirty years, not the pictures in the frames, not the kinds of groceries in the fridge, not the styles of clothes in their closets, and not the music on their turntables. (Yes, I mean actual record players, and not the cool-hipster kind.) Of course I'm a fan of tradition, yet I don't appreciate stasis. Whatever it is that makes people say, "Welp, this is as far as I'm going," I prefer to avoid; ergo, I'm making my bucket list.

Wait a minute. I just realized I've been listening to the same music for thirty years. Perhaps that's where I should start. Is there life after Wham!'s Make It Big? I should probably find out.

Okay, we have our first bucket list item and it's an easy one! How about I: Discover an entirely new playlist.

This isn't 1978 anymore where I had to use a tape recorder to capture the songs I liked when they played on the radio. Technology has made it possible to listen to any piece of music, anytime, anywhere. We're light-years ahead of when I needed a pencil to spool the tape back into the ca.s.sette in order to play R.E.M.'s seminal work on Doc.u.ment, so it's time to see what else I might like.

(Sidebar: I used to have a huge R.E.M. poster in my bedroom. I'd look at the band members with their crazy unibrows, pasty bodies, and terrible gla.s.ses every night and think to myself, "They started this band because they knew it was the only way any of them would ever get laid.") Finding a small niche that I dig and then never diverge from is a bad habit I perpetually need to break. I'm the same with music as the spots I visit on the Web. In the morning, I check my news feed, a handful of blogs, and Cute Overload and then I'm done because that's essentially the entire Internet for me.

Closing myself off to what's new or different without ever even giving it a chance seems . . . unhealthy and limiting. A plant will never thrive if it's not systematically refreshed, so I need to fertilize, water, and mix up the soil that is me; ergo, I should: Find a new hobby.

I don't know what this might entail, but suspect I'll find one organically. Preferably, this hobby will occasionally take me outside of the house, because I'm basically two Kleenex-box-slippers away from going all Howard Hughes. Plus, if I had a hobby, I'd have something entirely new to discuss and who knows what kinds of adventures I might stumble into in pursuit?

Okay, this list is starting to flow. If my goal's to expand what I know and what I do, I definitely want to: Learn to speak a new language.

There's something so elegant and continental about being able to converse with people of another culture. One of my favorite stories Fletch tells is one day he and his boss were walking back to the Sears Tower (NEVER the Willis Tower) after lunch and a tourist approached them, asking for directions to Navy Pier in German. They'd spotted the tourist trying to talk to others, but everyone else had shrugged and walked away. It just so happened that Fletch spoke German and his boss/buddy Wes was fluent in Danish, and between the two of them, they easily directed the man where he needed to go. Fletch said his initial thought was, "Good luck finding someone who speaks your language, pal," immediately followed by, "Hey, I'm a guy who speaks your language!"

While I've had a number of years of French and I used to be fairly proficient, I discovered that no French person actually wants to hear their gorgeous language coming out of my cheeseburger hole, no matter how much phlegm I incorporate, so trying to recapture what I knew of French would be no fun.

Spanish would be useful, but I fear I'd go all Peggy Hill, rolling my Rs at busboys, and I suspect that would insult all involved.

I'm probably most interested in speaking Italian. I had a semester in college and I absolutely fell in love. When I was little, my grandparents occasionally conversed in Italian and it was magically melodious. Only years later did I realize they were insulting each other and that "Tua nonna e la puttana del diavolo" ("your grandmother is the wh.o.r.e of the devil") and "Tuo nonno e un asino" ("your grandfather is a jacka.s.s") aren't exactly terms of endearment. Yet there's something appealing about being able to express my displeasure in an entirely new tongue, so you can see my dilemma.

What else would I like to do?

When Fletch and I talked about bucket lists, he suggested a lot of adrenaline-pumping activities, like skydiving or fire-walking or swimming with manta rays, which, no, no, and no. I don't want to try anything adrenaline-spiked because I'm not one of those folks who have to face death to live life. I don't care for terror; I find it terrible. I'd rather pursue the useful or the enjoyable. Like, I want to learn a language so that if I ever went to, say, Italy, I could converse.

Hold the phone! I should: Travel to Italy.

I've long suspected that Italy is Disneyland for adults, because there's so much to see and do (and eat) there. I'd love to visit the Roman Forum and see the Vatican and float down the Grand Ca.n.a.l of Venice in a gondola, then tour the museums in Florence, and see street fashion in Milan. While I'm there, I'd want to sit on a cliff on the Amalfi Coast with a gla.s.s of local wine and look out at the water. I'd kill to learn to make pasta properly in Tuscany.

No matter where I were to go in Italy, I'd want to eat dinner alfresco where the waiters are in no hurry because too many pretty girls are walking by. I'd want to sip cappuccino in a little cafe every day, just soaking up the feel of the country. I'd like to bargain with street vendors. I'd taste new foods and discover new styles. I'd have my picture taken in front of something iconic and historical so we could frame it to start a cool wall of black-and-white photos of the places we've been. I'd buy a pair of gla.s.ses there because then when people asked where my bada.s.s frames came from, I could shrug and say, "Italy," like, where else would I have gotten them?

Bragging rights aside, I'm half Italian, so more than anything, I'd like to witness where my ancestors came from and try to discover if there's any part of me that harkens back to my Italian heritage.

In terms of international travel, I'm suddenly game to go everywhere. I'm dying to ride mopeds in Greece. I want to hit Turkey and Morocco if for no reason other than my deep and abiding love of Mediterranean food. (I'll eat pretty much anything if it's stuffed inside a date. Fact.) I'd like to see all the neon in Tokyo and find out if the dirty underwear vending machines are actually real, largely so I can stand next to one and cluck in dismay every time some perv looks to make a purchase. I mean, that's all kinds of wrong . . . unless the sellers are (a) not exploited, and (b) receiving top dollar, in which case I have baskets full of that stuff in my laundry room and I'm happy to ship for a fee. (Plus, my underwear's big so I feel the creeps would be getting the most yes for their yen.) I'm dying to shop the flea markets in London after drooling over the Crown Jewels. I wonder, are there many pearl items as part of the Crown Jewel collection and if so, how securely do the Beefeaters guard them? (Asking for a friend.) Provided I don't land in a UK prison, I'm beyond curious to see the indoor skiing place in Dubai featured on the Discovery Channel. Come on, a hundred and twenty degrees outside, but snow inside? How could anyone not want to witness this firsthand? How do they keep the place so chilly? I can't make the upstairs of my house cooler than eighty degrees in the summer.

Speaking of cold, I'd love to spend the night at the Ice Hotel, draped in pelts and drinking shots of vodka to keep warm, although I do have vague concerns about exactly how frigid the toilet seats might be there. I'm not in love with the idea of a bunch of Swedish firemen peeling me off the mug Christmas Story style, yet I'd be willing to take that chance.

I've always wanted to take a swim wherever it is they snap those screensaver photos-Fiji? Bora Bora? The Maldives?-and sleep in a hotel room that's more of a hut built on a dock over the water. After reading The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, I'm dying to see the sun set in Botswana. I want to visit Indian temples and volunteer at an elephant sanctuary. I want to sample Serrano ham in Spain. I want to pay tribute at Anne Frank's house in Amsterdam and then stroll through a tulip field. And if I went to Paris, I'd like to find out if the French still mock me for my accent.

(My guess is oui.) Joanna and I always talk about auditioning for The Amazing Race as a way to see the world, but (a) I don't actually want to run a Siberian obstacle course or eat crickets-unless they're stuffed in a date-and (b) I'm sure with our navigation skills, we'd be eliminated before we even left Los Angeles.

If we got there at all.

And, because I'm me and in terms of full disclosure, if I could experience any of the above and fly international business cla.s.s?

Well, that wouldn't suck either.

But for now, I'd be ecstatic to get a single stamp in my pa.s.sport, which reminds me: Get a pa.s.sport.

The last one I had expired twenty-five years ago, so it's probably time. What's funny is last year, I was gathered with the girls for lunch and we were discussing pa.s.sports.

"How do you not have a pa.s.sport?" Tracey asked.

"Why would I need one?" I replied.

"What if you want to leave the country for the weekend?" Gina asked.

I said, "Why would I want to leave the country? I don't even like to leave the house. Frankly, I'm surprised I made it down here for lunch."

"So, you've never thought, 'We should go to Montreal for the weekend'?" Stacey asks.

"Thus far, in my forty-five years on this earth, no," I replied. "Hasn't been an issue."

Although, once, in the nineties, I had a job interview for an amazing position with a streaming media company headquartered in Canada. I was all set to fly up on their dime to claim my dream job, but the day before I was supposed to go, it occurred to me that I not only didn't have a pa.s.sport, but I had no idea where my birth certificate was. I made some calls and found out I wouldn't have much trouble getting into Canada, but returning to the US might be a problem, so I bailed. But it's not like streaming media ever became a thing, so I'm sure I wouldn't have even wanted to exercise all those stock options and . . .

d.a.m.n it.

"You'll change your mind," Stacey said.

Naturally, she was right. Don't tell her though. She'll just gloat about it.

Of course, I realize that nothing on my list matters if I don't take better care of myself, so I'd like to: Lose twenty pounds.

I know I've tried this before, actually basing a whole book on the subject. What's different now is I finally realize that weight loss entails more than just limiting calories and maximizing movement. Before, I chipped away at the symptoms and never at the disease itself. What I need to do is figure out why I make bad choices and what leads me to self-sabotage. If I approach weight loss in wellness terms, considering not just physical factors, but also emotional, spiritual, intellectual, and social, I'll see some success. I don't need to fit into my high school jeans, but considering I'll likely fly coach to Italy, I'd like to fit comfortably in the cheap seats.

However, I can't discount physical activity as part of the process, so I'd like to: Run a 5K.

See? I don't need to go nuts and pledge to complete a marathon because I'm sure I'd cause more damage to myself than I'd prevent. A 5K seems like a tangible goal that I can work toward without absolutely being miserable.

I also want to: Learn self-defense.

I don't want to carry a weapon. I want to be a weapon, largely because if s.h.i.t ever goes down, I'll likely be too slow to run away terribly far or fast, no matter how many 5Ks for which I might train. Also, I just watched Point of No Return for the millionth time and I'm inspired anew by how much a.s.s Bridget Fonda could kick.

(Sidebar: Where the h.e.l.l is she now? I loved her and then, poof! Totally gone.) And while I'm on the subject of the physical, I want to: Learn to ride a bike.

I know, I know.

The fact that I've not been on a bike since I was about twelve is super lame. They say you can't forget, but I'm pretty sure I've forgotten. Plus, the whole thing makes me anxious. It's not that I'm afraid of riding a bike so much as it is I'm afraid of falling off of one and ruining my dental work. Also, I'm worried-and I hate that I worry-that everyone will hear Queen lyrics when they see this fat-bottomed girl on the bike path.

I have to get past this.

Ultimately, my goal in life is to arrive at the finish line without having regrets. I don't want to reflect on my time on this earth and beat myself up for not having made an effort, for not pushing myself, for allowing small obstacles or personal pride to stand in my way. I don't want to be there on my deathbed wondering what was so d.a.m.n hard about riding a bike in the first place.

As I draft these ideas, I realize that most of what I want to try requires some planning, which totally makes sense. I believe a bucket list item should entail effort, practice, or execution because if anything on the list were easy, I wouldn't feel like I'd earned the check mark.

My theory is that success will help rebuild the kind of confidence that I've allowed a.s.sholes on social media to chip away over the past few years.

Remind me, was everyone happier back in the days before anyone with a broadband connection and a keyboard could absolutely crucify complete strangers with their words? I suspect that yes, we were. Jesus, I'm still reeling from the anonymous Chicago Tribune commenter who suggested that I "go back to [my] job behind the perfume counter" rather than continue to try to write a column.

That stung. Big-time.

On a more positive note, I'll wager that the pursuit of achievement in each case will be just as important as checking the item off my list. Sure, I'll go to Italy, but all the planning, the research, and the preparation that goes into getting me there will make me appreciate the journey even more.

In terms of striving for success and personal development, I'd also like to: Start a new line of business.

I'm very happy writing books and I can't imagine I'd ever willingly retire. Work fulfills me too much and I'm at the point where I've developed a better work-life balance. I'm more conscientious about scheduling time to vacuum, even when I'm on deadline. And our diets are far less cupcake-based now than when previous ma.n.u.scripts were due. So, that's a bonus.

I'd love to write forever, but there are a couple of inherent problems here. First, my whole industry's been flipped on its ear due to changes in not only how books are published, but who publishes them. Five years ago, the notion of self-publishing was a joke, but now it's a viable option and suddenly the market's flooded with new material. With the advent of the iPad, if I'm any indication, people are reading less. Honestly, I'm much more likely to watch a movie on a plane than I am to read a book. Doesn't mean I love books less, but I don't have as much time for them now. Because of the above, bookstores are struggling, so they're carrying less inventory, which means fewer choices for the consumer. And who knows how long my style will be in style.

Anyway, writing enhances my life in so many ways that I'll never give it up, but I'm practical enough to not disregard the stack of bills that arrives every month. If I could find an additional way to generate revenue in some form, I'd feel less anxious about the future.

Everything listed thus far requires effort and commitment. The only item I have that will require more luck than effort is: Have a conversation with an icon.

Is it shallow to say I want to meet someone I've idolized for years? Because I do. But I don't want to just have a picture taken with them, like I did when I met Alec Baldwin a few years ago. Sure, that was cool, and that snapshot's definitely on my mantel, but we didn't really converse or connect.

There was no spark of recognition or mutual understanding. There was no feeling, even for a second, of being colleagues, even though we were at an event for authors and I'd written more books than he had. He was a movie star and I was some a.s.shole in a cheap dress with an iPhone. Maybe it's a weird thing to want, but it's a goal, nonetheless. I have no idea how to pursue it, but I'm putting it out there Secret-style anyway.

Finally, the last item on my list is simple but necessary: Remove this d.a.m.n tattoo.

(No explanation required.) This list is a jumping-off point and my intention isn't to check out as soon as I'm done. Rather, I want to begin to undertake a series of challenges in this second chapter of life to keep from stagnating, to keep moving forward.

I wonder, how will this list change my life in the short term? What about the long term? Will I find Italy so dirty and frustrating that I never want to visit Europe again? Or will I love it so much that I make plans to eventually go all ex-pat? What will pursuing a new line of business bring? How will my self-defense cla.s.ses shake out? Will I eventually see myself on the news as one of those innocuous old ladies who literally beats the dog s.h.i.t out of her teenage attacker? Will I become my own Internet meme in my housedress and support stockings, all, "I took that boy to SCHOOL." Will I love training for a 5K so much that there will be marathons in my future?

I'm excited to find out, so let's light this candle.

Because, really?

I'm not getting any younger here.

She's the Man "Whoa, check out that awesome bike!"

We're taking a spin in our own personal midlife crisismobile (read: a used convertible) through the lakefront Fort Sheridan neighborhood, which formerly housed officers from the local army base. When the base closed in the 1990s, the Department of Defense sold the land to local developers and now the area's been reborn by way of attractive housing units. Every house, apartment, and townhome was gutted and refurbished, but developers saved the exteriors, so all the homes are still made of the original yellow brick. This makes for a neighborhood that's either beautifully cohesive or super-Stepford, based on your point of view.

(Sidebar: Why is a reference to The Stepford Wives now the benchmark for that which is evil and off? I mean, sure, there are some inherently feminist problems with turning women into man-pleasing robots, but, my G.o.d! The landscaping! The lemonade stands! As a relatively new homeowner, I have a profound appreciation for anything that ups neighborhood property values.) (Additional sidebar: I'm sorry, Ms. Steinem.) We've driven by this development a hundred times since moving to the suburbs but never actually explored the area until today. After running our errands earlier, we bought beverages at the drive-through Starbucks across from the entrance. I used to gripe about Fletch's constant coffee consumption until I finally realized that it's a small way to make him happy. Also, it's easier than arguing for twenty minutes on why we don't need to stop. Sometimes compromise tastes like caramel macchiato.

We've always been interested as to what is behind the iron gates, and, as it's warm and sunny, this seems like the perfect time to reconnoiter. Convertible season is pathetically abbreviated in Illinois, so we take advantage of it whenever we can.

By the way, never tell the Trader Joe's cashier that you "spent the day with the top down" because he will wrongly believe you're talking about your shirt and not your retractable canvas roof. He'll a.s.sume you're hitting on him, despite the fact that (a) you're married to your best friend, (b) you're tubby, (c) you're twenty-five years his senior, and (d) you're vehemently opposed to ever making out with someone who voluntarily wears a Hawaiian shirt. Plus, he'll notice all the two-buck Chuck and mini peanut b.u.t.ter cups in your cart and give you that bless-your-heart look and you'll want to smack the pity off of his annoyingly sympathetic young face.

Speaking of going to Cougar Town, a while ago, Fletch and I were at the dinner table when we saw an ad for some super-explode-y, CGI-filled, possibly alien-invading movie. Now, the only thing I love more than body-swapping flicks are those where action heroes spout a few quips while battling creatures from another planet, la "I could have been at a barbecue!"

"Hey," I said. "Rewind that." If you aren't one to watch television during dinner, then please congratulate yourself on not slogging along in the cultural mora.s.s that is my life. "I believe I'd like to see that film."

Fletch rolled his eyes. "Of course you would." He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully and then added, "I think Channing Tatum might be in the movie," which caused me to make what can only be described as an unholy noise coupled with a ma.s.sive intake of breath.

He shook his head with a mixture of pity and disgust. "I don't get it-how come you're allowed to ogle Channing Tatum with impunity?"

I replied, "Because my interest in him is innocent. I don't want to marry him. I want to be married to you. I don't visit Cougar Town, if for no reason other than a twentysomething wouldn't understand my cultural references. Remember last summer when we were playing Catchphrase with Julia and Finch and the word was 'champion.' And I sang, 'We are the mm-mm-mms, we are the mm-mm-mms . . . of the world!' and Julia had zero clue because she's ten years younger? I can totally be friends with that, but I could never marry that."

"Well, that's a relief," he replied.

"Seriously," I said, "I don't even want to make out with Channing Tatum. Pretty much my plans would include gawping and giggling. Maybe I'd put him in a bow tie and shirtless vest and have him serve drinks poolside, but that's it. I'd keep my hands to myself."

Saying nothing in response, Fletch loaded his fork with a large hunk of os...o...b..co and a small piece of red potato.

I pointed at his plate. "I couldn't be with Channing because I'm sure he doesn't touch carbs or red meat. Total deal breaker. You can't love me for my spaghetti Bolognese if your trainer doesn't let you near pasta, right? And then, if we were to somehow have a meal together and he were to take a monster bite of something, he'd never get the reference when I'd say, 'Bart! Sensible bites!' You know, from the episode when Lisa went vegetarian on The Simpsons."

"Probably because he was about twelve when it aired the first time."

"Exactly my point."

Fletch speared another bite. "Let me ask you this-what would you do if I went all Pavlovian like you do every time you hear his name? What would you think if I was apes.h.i.t over-give me a name of some big female star today."

"Um, Miley Cyrus?"

He grimaced. "Ugh, no. How about . . . Scarlett Johansson? What if I carried on like you do? What would happen? Listen, I know what would happen. You'd punch me."

I nodded. Sounded pretty likely.

"And that doesn't strike you as bulls.h.i.t? Like a ma.s.sive double standard?"

I sneaked the marrowbone off my plate so that Libby could lick it under the table. "It's totally a double standard."

"How is that acceptable?"

Huh. That really was a puzzler.

I quietly reflected while I worked it all out; then I snapped my fingers. "Got it! It's because for every dollar a man makes, a woman typically makes seventy-seven cents. Those twenty-three disparate cents are our justification."

He didn't look convinced. "So what you're telling me is that because of pay inequality, you're allowed to ogle Channing Tatum like you're some Teamster on a construction site?"

I replied, "Yes. Those twenty-three cents allow us to say whatever we want. That disparity is what I call The Channing Tatum Tax."

My statement left him speechless, as he was clearly awed by my feminine logic. As well he should be.

Anyway, I eventually saw the movie and it was kind of terrible. First, there were no aliens at all, and second, "Get your hands off my Jordans!" isn't nearly as quotable as "You know what the difference is between you and me? I make this look GOOD."

As for today, Fletch and I are on the same page, oohing and aahing at the matchy-matchy residences with their wide porches and curved windows. We idly wonder what life might have been like had we bought a home here instead of a few miles west. We slowly cruise around the neighborhood, admiring the old-growth oaks, with the radio at a respectful volume, speculating about which ranking officers lived in which units. We figure the higher the rank, the closer they'd be to the waterfront.

As we loop down Whistler Road, I spot an old woman pedaling by on a three-wheeled bicycle. I wave and she nods crisply in return. I admire her shiny rims and slow, steady path. I love how, despite her age, she moves with steely determination, which is when I notice the best part.

"Check out the basket on that thing!" I say. "I bet she could hold three bags of groceries up there!"

Suddenly I notice that Fletch has completely changed our own trajectory and we're no longer headed toward the heart of the development.