I Started Misquoting My Age

I have been telling everyone I'm 32. Somehow, my brain refuses to switch from 32 to 33 even though I grew another year on September 11, 2007. I should have realized that something was amiss when I made the mistake the first time.

I don't know what changed since September but I finally came to the conclusion that life as I know it is not a life at all. I've been married for eight years yet I feel like I've barely spent any quality time with my handsome husband. I have an almost five year old daughter whose baby book is a collection of plastic bags in the walk-in closet I'm afraid to open. We live thousands of miles away from family and special occasions consist for pre-scheduled webcam sessions on my teeny laptop during which my mother breaks then fixes her headset at least twice and my grandmother almost always gets frustratred from not being able to hear anything and goes off to the kitchen to fix some tea.

So I decided to change my ways and made it official this week by telling my full-time nanny that I'm soon quitting my job and moving back where I came from. Somewhere far away, very very far away, from New York City where I live now. She took it well -- almost too well for my taste and is now looking for another job.

I on the other hand am in full-blown nesting mode. Stocking up on necessities, getting rid of frivilous extensions of my life in New York. Deciding to give up a high-powered corporate career in order to move oversees, to stay home with my daughter and to write my first novel requires more planning than you'd think.

This is definitely a midlife crisis. I know it. I think I'm going to enjoy every minute of it!