This is what adulthood looks like.

Have you ever had to decide between convenience and possibly killing your loved ones?

I'm a pretty OK cook. And I make a mean chili - I lovingly craft the vegan chili of my dreams, and cook up ground turkey on the side for my carnivorous husband.

All of this magic happens in a kitchen about the size of a Kleenex, and with kitchen utensils that are, in large part, hand-me-downs. Friends, Pyrex lasts forever.

You know what else lasts forever? Those little glass bowls you could get at the grocery store by collecting stamps. I have my grandma's collection, and I use them every day. I feel like they are rare, fragile gems, even though I imagine they're worth about 37 cents.

Turns out they also aren't fragile. Ask me how I know! It might be something to do with the fact that I dropped one last night while making chili. The bowl bounced into the dish rack, and there was a loud crash, but I couldn't find a crack or chip in the bowl. I chalked it up to Grandma looking out for me, and continued making chili.

The chili part of the chili was simmering along. The turkey part of the chili was almost done, and just needed to finish cooking. I grabbed the skillet lid out of the dish rack and tipped it over the turkey. As I did, there was a tinkling little racket.

Ehh?

I looked back at the dish rack. While Grandma's little grocery store bowl was unscathed, it had completely obliterated the Mr. Coffee carafe. The dish rack was full of broken glass. And the skillet lid had been full of broken glass, too.

I had dumped shards of broken glass into my husband's ground turkey. I had effectively ensured that he would have to go coffee-less in the morning, but I had also maybe figured out a way to kill him before then.

I looked at the turkey. I was so hungry, and the chili was done. Maybe I could fish out the glass. Maybe I could just rinse it off. It would probably be fine, right? Why, with all the diet pop he drinks, his stomach was probably already accustomed to such roughage.

I thought about it. I really did.

And then I dumped the turkey in the trash, fished some chicken out of the fridge, and started over. Because sometimes being responsible is a giant pain in the ass.

Pretend they're happy tears.

I'm a terrible, horrible person. You probably are, too. But we're talking about me. Get your own blog.

Sigh.

See, a friend has received a great blessing. She's so happy, and excited.

On the surface, I am gracious and happy for my friend. But inside? Inside, I look like every monster from every 1950s B-movie horror show. I have fangs and scales and bulging eyes and bad, bad breath. I'm ugly.

I look like this. But worse. Definitely with more nose hair.

My friend is pregnant.

Now, in the land of Childless and Going With It, you aren't supposed to feel feelings when someone else has a baby. If you didn't spend a gajillion dollars on IVF until it took, or you didn't pursue every avenue of adoption until your house was filled with 27 kids, well, you just didn't want parenthood bad enough. You didn't earn the right to grieve.

But I'm still here. And I'm still grieving. And I feel horrible for feeling so ugly about my friend's good news.

She will be an amazing mother. I truly wish her and her lucky little baby every joy and blessing. I can't wait to smell that baby's head, because baby heads are the best.

But it also makes me sad.

Why wasn't it me?

Why am I one of three childless women I know in, like, the whole world? Why does this still hurt? Why do I feel like a defective typewriter?

I was never one of those women whose lives would be meaningless without kids. Longtime readers know that there was a time when I was pretty actively in the "Oh, hell no" camp when it came to children. But people change, and situations change, and I fell in love and I wanted to have a family with this amazing man. It just didn't turn out quite the way we planned.

Our line in the infertility sand was no treatments that would increase my breast cancer risk. With my family history, this precaution wasn't just lip service - it was necessary. So, our treatment options were limited.

As for adoption? My parents offered to help financially. It felt very "How much for zee little gurl?" But it didn't feel right. My husband and I tabled adoption talk until we could right our emotional ships. And then it just never felt like the right time to pursue adoption. And then we realized it wasn't right for us at all. We will contribute to the world in other ways.

And so, here we are.

We make grandiose proclamations like, "Since we don't have to put anyone through college, we should go on fabulous vacations!" And yet, we can't agree on where to go. We set up college funds for our nieces and nephews, and go back to the same beachfront hotel year after year. And year after year, I am troubled by seeing the same poolside waiter, and I wonder if he has any retirement savings at all. I am redirecting my maternal instincts.

This is life. This is our life.

We've made peace with a world where we don't have kids. When a teacher pal mentioned a high school student who was pregnant and half-joked that she'd get the girl to give us her baby, I wasn't filled with hope. I was filled with panic, and with dread at the thought of having to say, "That's not our baby. No."

Because we don't have a baby. We won't. I had to shut that door because I couldn't move forward while still contemplating the "maybe." I had to say "no" for my own emotional survival, and to grow.

I get tired of friends and random people who can't talk about anything but kids, or who assume that everyone has kids, or who give me the sad head tilt of infertility empathy. If you really want to be empathetic, talk about something besides your kid. Also, buy me a drink. Because no 4-year-old is going to wake me up at 5 a.m. and I can sleep it off.

But if you really want to be kind? Please don't judge me too harshly. When I cry at a friend's good news and may or may not be successful in playing it off as happy tears? Let it go. Play along. Later, act like you can't tell I just sobbed in the ladies' room.

I'm happy for my friend. I can't wait to smell that downy baby noggin. But it's all just a bit much.

He puts the "goo" in "guru."

I'm having a week of "I couldn't possibly."

I couldn't possibly write yet another article about Joe's Mattress Shack. I couldn't possibly start our taxes. I couldn't possibly go to the gym. I couldn't possibly get out of bed.

I may be a teensy bit burned out.

And there's this DOG, right? Lil' Frank is so robust and healthy now, and he has boundless energy. He never says, "I couldn't possibly bark at that squirrel" or "I couldn't possibly lose my mind over my food," or "I couldn't possibly chase that raquetball for 7 hours."

Yes. Seven hours.

No. He just does it. His joie de vivre is mega annoying right now. It's like he's happy to be alive just to spite me.

Yesterday, I waited 45 minutes at the bank. I walked in feeling like a very important spy, because only very glamorous, spy-like people have actual safe-deposit boxes, and wasn't that exciting? But after 45 minutes of waiting and politely listening to an octogenarian dressed head-to-toe in purple talk about how the government is trying to program us all via mandatory vaccinations and how this nice young man named Rush has a radio show and perhaps I should check it out?

Well. I was no longer a glamorous spy. I couldn't possibly hold it together any longer.

But I did. And then the poor, frazzled bank lady said it was my turn, and she apologized about 17 times. Then, she paused and said, "I seriously love your outfit. You look so adorable."

And suddenly I was a glamorous spy-like person again - even if I didn't find what I wanted in the safe-deposit box.

I need to pay better attention. To the contents of the safe-deposit box, sure. But also to the other stuff.

Joe's Mattress Shack loves me and values my work, and that's why they want me to write yet another article about pillow-top comfort. I need to start our taxes because we are blessed with good jobs and so taxes are a thing. I need to go to the gym because my body works and isn't it amazing?

I need to look at Lil' Frank for what he is: a spiritual leader. A spiritual leader who occasionally pees on the floor. But a spiritual leader, nonetheless.

I'm wearing a parka. Clearly, I'm good at life.

In which I learn about true superpowers.

Last night, I had to change the sheets at 11 p.m.

We had gone to bed early. My Guy was reading, and I was in that weird twilight that can best be described as "It's freezing in our bedroom and I've been traveling and I'm exhausted and I can't talk to anyone else or do anything for anyone ever, ever again so don't even ask if I flossed before coming to bed."

Big Doodle snoozed in his dog bed. Lil' Frankfurter snored in the bed between us, his doting parents.

And then? There was some sort of explosion.

Lil' Frank leaped from the bed and started gagging. The husband and I were both immediately wide awake, overcome by the nastiest, fartiest smell ever. And then My Guy realized there was some sort of stuff all over his shirt.

It was also on the sheets. The stench was remarkable. And we couldn't figure out what end of Lil' Frank it had come from.

It didn't really matter, though. Our number 1 objective was to strip the bed and the shirt immediately. We cleaned everything up and calmed Lil' Frank down. The foul smell lingered, but I was so tired that I didn't exactly care.

Today, Lil' Frank was still fragrant. And his little booty? Well, you know. I took him to get his anal glands expressed. Best day ever!

Except! The vet tech brought him back to me with a bit of a shrug. "They were mostly empty," she said. "It was like they'd just been expressed."

I looked at her blankly, then the light bulb went off. I explained the previous night's adventures.

"Oh, sure," she said nonchalantly. "If there was liquid and smell, he probably expressed them himself."

Let's just let that sink in for a moment. Lil' Frank, who weighs 8 pounds and can't even go up and down stairs, expressed his own anal glands. In our bed. And his little ass explosion so terrified him that he catapulted off the bed and almost threw up.

To be fair, I catapulted off the bed and almost threw up, too. But I have opposable thumbs.

The Westminster Dog Show needs to add a new competition. Screw agility and best in breed. The real test of a dog is its ability to clean its own butt.

Resting comfortably with a clean backside.

Operation: Eff Yeah, I'm 40!

When my dad turned 40, we threw him a funeral.

A family friend was an undertaker, and he filled our living room with white folding chairs. There were plant stands holding dead flowers, and we even had that little stand with a guest book. My dad came home from work to find all his friends seated in the living room, crying softly while looking at a Skippy Peanut Butter jar full of fireplace ashes.

And then us kids were shipped off and they tapped the keg.

But yeah. A funeral.

I'm turning the big 4-Oh in a few months, and it doesn't feel like a death at all. It feels kind of badass. Like I'm just getting smarter and stronger and more interesting and well on my way to knowing exactly what everybody needs to be doing because I'm so smart and they would be lucky if I told them what they're doing wrong. My inner old lady who doesn't give a shit is alive and well. I like her.

So, I'm trying to decide how to celebrate my birthday. I turned 21 during finals week, so my big "party" was having a morning exam, downing beer at lunch, sleeping it off in the afternoon, and then studying all night. When I turned 30, my life was basically in the toilet, but my parents and friends conspired to throw me a wonderful, humbling party. It was lovely.

Now, looking at 40? I don't need a party. I want to go someplace special with My Guy and do something empowering. Maybe hiking or kayaking or getting a really nice coat at a deep, deep discount. The possibilities are endless.

Well, the possibilities within the continental United States, anyway.

What should I do for my birthday extravaganza? How have you celebrated big birthdays? Any advice? Operation: Eff Yeah, I'm 40! needs your input.

Noted, mostly without comment.

I feel like all I write about anymore is all introspective and borderline sad. So, to cleanse my palate, I will tell you about my husband's comment after a particularly delicious dinner at a Mexican restaurant.

My Guy: "That was awesome. Put those extra chips in your bra and let's go."

Ladies and gentlemen, my husband. Who mostly married me for my purse, and the fact that most of my clothes have pockets.

Not a resolution. A realization.

Every year, my husband gives me pajamas for Christmas. He started this tradition when we were dating, and I find it incredibly sweet that once a year, he girds his manloins and heads to Victoria's Secret for me. He thinks that's the only place on the planet that sells women's pajamas.

This year's pajamas are particularly comfortable. They're like long underwear, and I've worn them approximately 120 hours in the week since I received them. These jams manage to make me feel sporty, comfortable, warm, and svelte, all at the same time. My Guy for the jammification win!

So, my week of jammified comfort left me ill-prepared for finding an appropriate outfit for New Year's Eve. We were meeting friends for dinner at a nice-but-not too-nice restaurant. I knew that if I were a guy, I'd wear slacks, a shirt, and a sweater. Basically, I'd dress like my dad because he always looks appropriate.

But I'm a woman. Dammit.

So, I stood in our freezing-cold closet and attempted to cobble together an outfit that was nice but not "I'm 22 and headed out to the bars." Something that was a bit more festive than I'd usually wear, but not trying too hard.

I looked at my dress pants. Some of them were literally dusty. Now that I no longer work for The Man, my days are spent in jeans and yoga pants and the fleece pants that My Guy and I lovingly refer to as "couch pants." But for a very chilly New Year's Eve, I figured that dress pants might be just the ticket.

So, the dress pants I bought 10 years ago don't really fit anymore.

They fit, but they create a slight muffin top that's kind of a confidence crusher.

The last two and a half months, I've been working out like I've never worked out before. Not working out like a madwoman, but just working out beyond just hitting the treadmill. I haven't lost weight, but I'm fitter. I'm gaining muscle. And I'm thinking that maybe that number on the scale is just what I'm supposed to weigh, since all roads seem to lead back to the same number all the time.

But I have a closet that has lots of clothes that are ... a little off. They're from a previous life when I was 10 pounds lighter, 10 years younger, and living a life that isn't at all where I am today.

So, last night, freezing in my unheated closet and trying to figure out what I could wear to dinner besides my ever-present pajamas, it occurred to me that I could cull my closet. I could donate those clothes that are no longer just right. They could be a blessing to someone else.

But that would mean admitting that the part of my life those clothes belonged to is really, truly over. It would mean announcing that yes, I wear t-shirts and torn jeans and am no longer the type of woman who wears dress pants, even on special occasions.

Truth be told, I never really liked wearing dress pants. But they just seemed so grown-up. It was like trying on being a fancy, corporate lady. Like being Day-to-Night Barbie.

I'm not a fancy, corporate lady. And I'm so much happier now that I'm not trying to be. It looks like my new year's realization is that it's time to hand off the dress-pants baton.

I threw on a favorite dress, purple tights and a pink sweater that totally didn't go together but made me happy, and called it good. Because, as Bill Murray chanted in that famous scene from "Meatballs," IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER.