Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Columnist speaking. I’d like to welcome you to my midlife crisis. I’ll be your attendant. It’s good to have you with me today. Before we depart, I’d like to make you aware of a few rules and safety precautions.

Please make certain your seat belt is fastened low and tight about your waist. To fasten the belt, insert the metal tab into the buckle and pull tight. If you have difficulty operating the belt, raise your hand and your attendant will be by to escort you the hell out of here, since you’re clearly one of those dunderheads that sets your Columnist’s teeth to grinding. Patience is not her strong suit some days.

Located in the seat pocket in front of you is a laminated sheet showing exit locations. These colorful cards can double nicely as fans for those sudden hot spells, as temperatures in this area can be problematic.

Sit back and relax and take a moment to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. As I am part of your surroundings, I ask that you note this area between my shoulder and elbow is called an upper arm, not my wing span. And despite what my daughter might tell you, I am not a flying squirrel in drag. However, in a few minutes we will be dimming the cabin lights in order to enhance the appearance of your attendant.

Please note that in the event of a loss of pressure, you’ll be on your own. You will be able to recognize that there’s been a loss of pressure because air masks will drop from the ceiling, or because your attendant will be dancing in the aisle, celebrating her first taste of life without pressure.

There will be no smoking allowed, unless your attendant happens to be wearing corduroy pants and walking too fast. (When combined with thick thighs, corduroy has a higher combustion level than flint.)

The sad thing of it is–I’m only half kidding. I don’t know if it’s this never ending winter that has me losing my noodles, or if I’m in the midst of a bonafide midlife crisis.

I catch myself calling the kid by the dog’s name, the cat by the kid’s name. Instead of saying “hello” when my home phone rings, I answer, “Charleston Newspapers.” I’ve worn one blue and one black shoe to work and house slippers to a funeral.

It used to be if I went to the store without a list, I was lost. Now I’m lost if I go to the basement without one. My memory’s shot. The only things I seem to retain are water and fat.

When I see my reflection, that person is a stranger. And gravity isn’t that stranger’s friend.

I did some research on midlife crises and was surprised that it seems to be a very real thing. Before I met the qualifications myself, I figured it was nothing more than an excuse middle-aged men used for buying a sports car or behaving badly, but studies have shown both men and women are equally susceptible, and their symptoms are similar.

For many, there’s the desire to quit a good job or simply run away. There are unexplained bouts of depression, and an inability to concentrate on tasks that used to be easy.

There can be a sudden interest in the arts–drawing, painting, writing books or poetry–or wanting to learn to play an instrument or discover new music.

There’s a self-destructiveness, a craving for pain, of believing it feels good to get hurt. Of being upset with society, wanting to help change the world for the better. Of feeling trapped by fiscal responsibilities. Of craving simplicity.

But most of those aren’t all that bad, so maybe this shouldn’t be cured, but explored. Maybe this should be a time to step back and evaluate what’s most important. To figure out where to go from here, and how to get where we want to be.

If handled right, instead of a midlife crisis, this could be a midlife transformation.

Still, it’s best that you remain seated until we’ve come to a stop.

Since there’s a chance we could be in for a long, bumpy ride. 

My daughter and I were sharing a chair at my computer when she typed in the name of her favorite new website. I was hooked in an instant. The site, MyLifeIsAverage.com, claims to be a place to share your everyday mediocrity. Their goal is to help people realize they aren’t alone in their average-ness, and that normal need not share the same definition as dull. It’s a matter of perspective. (Aided by clever wording.) Listed below are some of my favorites. (In some cases, minor editing has been made to conserve space.) 

• I was texting my friend who lives in a different time zone than me. I told her, “I like to think you’re one hour in the future, so if anything important happens, let me know.” A few minutes later, she replied, “ZOMBIES! RUN!”

• Monday morning, my car wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t start Friday morning either. It did, however, work just fine over the weekend. I like that my car doesn’t want to go to work either.

• I saw a commercial about a dandruff shampoo that said “85% of women agree that dandruff is a turn-off.” Does that mean 15% think it’s a turn-on?

• I grew up in a college town. One Halloween our doorbell rang and we opened it expecting to see trick-or-treaters, but found another door. A full-on wooden door. It had a sign that said, “Please knock,” so we did. The door swung open to reveal a bunch of college dudes dressed as old ladies with curlers in their hair who proceeded to coo over our costumes and tell us we were such cute trick-or-treaters! One even pinched my cheek. Then THEY gave US candy, closed their door, picked it up and walked to the next house.

• I just saw a commercial for the Snuggie. I thought it was stupid idea but I couldn’t change the channel because I was under a blanket and I didn’t want my arms to get cold.

• Today, I met a girl named Unique. She has an identical twin sister. No one else thought it was funny.

• I was helping my 10-year-old brother with his homework. One math problem ended with, “Is Susie correct? Explain.” I told him you never argue with women. He wrote that. He got full credit.

• Yesterday, I got a motion-activated trash can, then spent an hour pretending to magically open the trash can with a wand.

• I’m in college and today, I got my first kiss. Inside the most epic blanket fort ever.

• When I got home today, I found my cat running around on the roof, meowing loudly. None of the windows were open. I have so many questions.

• I just realized that when I’m trying to be sneaky, I walk like Captain Jack Sparrow.

• My mom and I were at the store today when I saw a cute guy walk by. Mom noticed I was watching him. She leaned over to me and said, “I wouldn’t mind having his grandchildren.” I love my mom.

• A fortnight ago I finally solved my Rubik”s Cube. I waited two weeks to post this so that I could use the word “fortnight.”

• Today I ate a tootsie pop. It took 473 licks to get to the tootsie roll center. You’re welcome world.

• I was at Disneyland waiting for a parade when I saw a little boy playing with his new Jedi Academy light saber. Suddenly, a college-aged girl on the other side of Main Street jumped up, also wielding a light saber. The kid deflected her attack perfectly. I wish I had been a part of this.

And–being happily average–I wish I had, too. 

On this balmy February day of celebrating love and romance, it seemed appropriate to share my years of experience at writing schmaltzy prose with those who long to capture and preserve their feelings via the dying art of love letters.

Lest you believe these weekly columns do not qualify me to offer such advice, I humbly mention my occasional foray into the world of romance writing for Woman’s World magazine.

And thus it is, with heaving breast (only the one breast heaves, the other mostly just sits there), that I offer the following tips, the inclusion of which are guaranteed to make your letter one your beloved will cherish.  

Start with why you are writing. What moved you to want to do this for him or her? This is also a good place where, should there be a chance your darling might not recognize your name, you could include a few identifying descriptive details along with assurances that you have no intention of stalking.

Recall a special memory, such as how you first met, your first impression (if you can’t be certain, be vague!), or those times you spoke briefly before she got that silly notion about being followed.

Describe how pitiful you were and how empty your life was before he or she came along, and express how different things are now. For instance, “Before you, my utility bills were all but nonexistent-a monthly reminder of my solitude. Now, the triple digit bills only serve to remind me of that other, all-important triple-the ‘I’ and the ‘love’ and the ‘you.’”

Recall your first kiss. How did it make you feel? Avoid details involving tonsil tickling and concerns over cold sores or the contagiousness of gingivitis.

Consider including a photo or sketch of a physical landmark that has a special connection to your relationship. For my husband and me, there’s a bench at Cedar Lakes where we sat talking until the sun came up. A year later, that bench is where he proposed. So if I were to choose a landmark that was the icon of our relationship, it would probably be Main Tin in South Charleston, then maybe Los Agaves, and then after Sitar’s of India and Lowes, I’d go with the bench.

Include a nickname (like “sweet Mr. Lumpy” or “my darling be-yotch”) or mention an inside joke, something that’s just between the two of you, like blaming the dog or hiding the salami.

But don’t be too erotic or suggestive. Don’t make the letter something you’d be embarrassed for someone to see. Like your spouse. Or your defense attorney.

Express gratitude for something he or she has done that means a lot to you. For instance, you might draw a cartoon of a dripping IV next to the words, “THANKS! for all those times you sold your plasma so I could pursue my dream of being a professional poker player, and for being so understanding about the confusion over mawmaw’s transplant fund.”

Mention a dream or goal the two of you share. Like the day you’ll both hear that you qualify for disability, in spite of the news coverage on your doubles tennis tourney win.

Find ways to work elegant descriptives into your letter, like alabaster skin, raven hair, lips red as a boil. Compare him to a stallion and use phrases like “well-muscled torso that glistens with man-dew.” Declare yourself a prisoner of love, and make frequent references to him or her being your soulmate. If you directly reference moments of passion, don’t just describe what happened, but also the meaning of what transpired. For instance, don’t just recall “our night of passion,” remember the night “after our wedding when your chest was heaving like a bulimic after Thanksgiving dinner.”

And finally, be sure to use nice paper since love letters are almost always saved by the recipient, be it in a stack that’s tied with a ribbon, or a sealed baggie marked “Evidence.”

It was a dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets. Punxsutawney. Pennsylvania.

Shamtown. Conville. The Nation’s Deceivers. 

There was something fishy going on in Punxsutawney, and I was determined to find out what it was. My name is Noir. Gal Noir.

I was minding my own business, strolling about Punxsutawney after the festivities were over, after the last of the camera-toting tourists had snapped their final shots, when I first laid eyes upon him.

He was short and rugged. His brown hair shone like what Beethoven had in mind when he wrote the Moonlight sonata. He wore nothing but his fur coat-a fur so tight it was like he’d been poured into it and forgot to say When. He moved in a way that could take a woman’s mind off the state of the economy. At least for a minute.

Though I’m not the kind of hard-hitting newshound who works doggedly (or hoggedly, as the case may be) to out a beloved celebrity involved in a scandal, I knew who and what he was in an instant, and could not allow his charade to continue.

“Phil,” I said, my voice husky from one too many cream sodas (three fingers, neat), “you’re not a groundhog at all, are you?”

Phil retreated a few steps, an expression of surprise and alarm on his furry face. Then, much like I would’ve expected of one grown comfortable with his facade, his beguiling guise, Phil smiled confidently. Disarmingly. His teeth white and long. So very, very long.

More like the teeth of a woodchuck.

I pelted him with questions, rapidly firing one after another, hoping to catch him off guard.

Question. Question. Question. And then, “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

His answer? “Seven.”

“Gotcha!” I said. “You’re an imposter! No one but a woodchuck could’ve answered that question. I’ve done extensive research on Google. Looked at countless images of groundhogs and woodchucks. And you, sir, are a woodchuck.”

Phil yawned.

“So tell me,” I continued. “What does PHIL really mean? Is it an acronym for Perspicacious Histrionic Impish Liar? Or Punxsutawney’s Hilarious Imitation Lothario?”

Phil appeared unruffled by my accusation. 

“Groundhog. Woodchuck. Land beaver. Whistlepig,” said Phil. “They’re all pretty much interchangeable.” 

Scandal scuttled, I left some apologies with the large, drowsy rodent and bid a hasty farewell. Headed back out into the dark night in the city that keeps well its secrets. 

Chuckville. Hogtown.

Punxsutawney, PA.

My friend Julie Blackwood sent a link to the Web site of photographer Susan Mullally, who started a photo project featuring members of The Church Under the Bridge, a nondenominational church that for the past 16 years has been meeting weekly under the Interstate 35 bridge in Waco, Texas.

According to the Web site, many of those who attend this church “had significant disruptions in their lives, experienced periods of homelessness or incarceration, addiction to drugs and alcohol, mental illness or profound poverty and hopelessness.” Although some church members now have jobs and more stable lives, others remain homeless, and nearly all have little in the way of belongings.

Mullally’s project is to photograph each of the church members, one at a time, with the one item each considers their most meaningful, and why it is valued.

One picture shows a tough-looking, 40ish man in dark sunglasses holding out a black cowboy hat.

“My hat represents who I am,” he’s quoted as saying. “Everybody calls me Cowboy. Without my hat, I’m just like everyone else.”

Another man, clean-looking and serious, with a neatly trimmed beard and glasses slid down low on his nose, holds up a tin filled with games.

“I was a librarian,” says the 51-year-old man with four college degrees. “I’ve read more books than you can fit under the bridge. I like chess and backgammon. They’re intelligent games. I play with another homeless person who’s probably as well rounded as I am.”

There were photos and reminders of time spent in the service. There were tattoos and found jewelry and a few special items passed down from family members.

The same day the article arrived in my inbox, I’d been telling a friend about this nubby old recliner I need to get rid of, but can’t. It’s been offered to friends, then retracted. Put out at a yard sale, then dragged back inside.

It now lives out on our covered back porch. The memories attached to that chair aren’t particularly happy ones to recall, but because the memories I have are so few and because that particular piece of furniture happens to be a landmark, the chair remains.

I both love and hate it.

And if I were to be photographed like the people under the bridge, I would be with that chair.

When I asked my husband what his one thing would be, he had a hard time deciding. Not because there’s so much, but because there’s so little.

“When you move as many times as I have, you lose things along the way,” said Geoff, whose most treasured belonging, he decided, is his “cat-araff,” an odd, carved wooden creature his grandmother gave him ages ago.

The cat-araff stands nearly 4 feet tall, and the twice broken and twice-badly glued creature features a Grinchlike grin and strange orange eyes that — thank God — don’t seem to follow you when you walk by. Though it’s taken awhile, I’ve grown fond of his cat-araff. It seems the perfect memento of his grandmother, who is unique and quirky herself.

My neighbor, Carolyn Hawley, said her one thing would be her grandmother’s ring, since, “It’s like having a part of her with me every day.”

Others said it would be their cell phones or computers or cars they could not do without, while one said, “My bra and my coffee maker. The Kanawha Valley is not aware how much they appreciate me having these items. It would be like ‘Godzilla Ate Tokyo’ if I didn’t.”

Ric Cochran liked the question because he said it caused him to consider that there really isn’t any specific thing he couldn’t be without. Said Ric, “The idea of canceling out some stuff is refreshing. I recently put a crawler screensaver on my computer that says, ‘Give up something.’”

Like Ric, the idea of getting rid of things is appealing. I long for a simpler life, for less to clean, an attic I can move around in, a garage that would actually accommodate a vehicle.

I have many things that I love and cherish, but few I could not live without. I need my people, my pets, and my pictures of my people and pets.

It’s strange that I can so easily grasp and passionately believe that it’s who we are, not what we have, that determines whether we’re rich or poor, yet I’m still having such trouble getting rid of my stuff. I don’t like that it has power over me.

That’s why I’m going to take a photograph of my wonderful, awful, nubby old chair. And then give it away.