Before this blog goes any further, I think we should introduce ourselves. This is awkward because frankly, you're just not holding up your end of the conversation. So I'll tell you a little about me.

First, the age thing. At 44, mathematically speaking, I'm middle-aged. Almost everyone who is beginning the process of aging denial says they don't feel their age. I'm pretty sure that's because none of us know what our age is supposed to feel like. I feel good. Healthy, mostly happy, and not as though my life's goals have eluded me, but that those I have not yet realized are still out there, waiting for me to grab them like they are a genie's bottle and shine them into life.

I have a mental illness. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder - then more commonly known as manic depression - more than 20 years ago. I am fortunate enough to have what are called long cycles, vast periods of time during which I am relatively stable. I've stayed steady now for eight years.

But bipolar is not a label that is eventually expunged from ones record. Once the wiring of the brain has edged off the tracks, it may very well do so again. Only a fool - as I have been in the past - would ignore that risk. Taking medication is like brushing my teeth, part of my daily routine, vital to my overall health.

This disorder is part of the person I am, woven into the complex fabric of my being. And years ago, I realized I would not have it any other way. I am in fine company.

More on that at another time.

About a decade ago, I was quoted in our newspaper's company newsletter saying that even though I knew I would never be rich, I would always be a reporter.

Today, my business card identifies me as a Community Developer for a major Medicare insurance company.

When I stumbled across that newsletter the other day, I shook my head at the incredible naiveté of my younger self: She had the audacity to believe she could live her passion for the rest of her life. I miss her.

I feel a kinship with Sarah Jessica Parker because her looks are chameleon-like. Never common or stereotypically beautiful, she is oftentimes uniquely arresting. And sometimes, let's just say she doesn't look so good. Her extremes are extreme. Like mine.

I have nice eyes, a nice smile and great legs; those are my three best features. I got my father's fast metabolism, which makes me naturally, almost effortlessly thin. But I got his nose and chest as well: One is big; one is not. The fates giveth, and the fates taketh away.

I have an amazingly perceptive, smart, good-humored and cute 13-year-old son. I know every mom says these things about her child, but if you continue reading these posts, I'll convince you it's true.

We have a big, old and hairy black dog with an unrelenting funk, and two young, demanding black-and-white cats. Shelter animals all.

The five of us live in a big, 1970s-era house in south suburban Denver, in the loveliest neighborhood I have ever known.

Even though it took me 40 years to know for sure, I'm a Democrat.

I'm also a member of the Unitarian Universalist church, someone who, in a survey of faith, checks the spiritual-but-not-religious box.

I have a pierced belly button, the victim of a 40th birthday party in Las Vegas.

My last serious relationship is seven years in the grave.

I'm blessed - a word I never say aloud - with a wide and varied circle of friends.

My feet hit the floor with hope and gratitude almost every day. For that and the reasons above, I consider myself fortunate.