It's not a mid-life crisis until someone gets a tattoo

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Well, hello there. I'm back.

Miss me?

I'd like to say I'm back and better than ever, after my longer-than-expected technological hiatus. But that wouldn't be quite true. Is there a such thing as a third-of-life crisis? Because I'm pretty sure I'm having one.

You know how when men have a mid-life crisis, they dye their hair, or get a random tattoo, or run out and buy a convertible?

Yeah, that's totally happening to me.

Suddenly, everywhere I look, there are sassy, sporty, suh-weet convertibles - and I want one.

• I see myself zipping downtown to work each day in black Nissan 370Z.
  

• I dream of Saturday afternoon shopping trips with a girlfriend in my red Mini Cooper.

• I envision sexy summer date nights with Nate in my slate gray Infiniti G37.

Who cares that it's only top-down weather like three months out of the year? Never mind that I'd be terrified to be on a snowy interstate in a Mini Cooper what basically amounts to a tin Campbell's soup can. Room for a baby seat, groceries, suitcases? Who needs 'em?

Five years ago when I could have had any car I wanted, I chose the biggest mid-sized family car I could find. It never even crossed my 24-year-old mind to get a sporty two-door, let alone a convertible. But now that I'm a grown-up, responsible, almost thirty-year-old, trying to procreate woman?

I WANT A CONVERTIBLE AND I WANT ONE BAD.

Practicality be damned.