Hey you kids, get off my lawn!

I grew up being told to pipe down, mind my manners and speak only when spoken to. I tried my best to be a good little girl, but my efforts to comply never lasted long. Even the nuns at St. Valentine's School had a hard time keeping me from speaking my mind.

A headstrong non-conformist from birth, I couldn't wait to be old enough to do whatever I pleased. I didn't know exactly how old I needed to be, but I imagined it was going to take me a while to get there. In my mind I saw myself as silver haired, somewhat eccentric, and living alone in a cozy cottage by the sea where I could spend my days painting and gardening, wearing vintage clothes, surrounded by lots and lots of black cats. Think "the Aunts" from the movie Practical Magic.

Apparently my secret desire to become the crone showed, just a little, like the lace edging of a slip peaking out from under the hem of a skirt. Back in the early 90s, at the age of 34, I worked a brief stint as the pastry chef at the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley, California. It wasn't a good fit and I didn't stay long — just long enough for my inner eccentric to make an impression on the sous chef.

We had an antagonistic relationship. Frustrated that I wouldn't jump when he barked, Young Sous Chef often resorted to personal attacks. One day he said to me, "Leslie, when you get old you're going to be one of those women who dresses in black and keeps their blinds drawn and yells at the neighborhood kids when their ball ends up on your lawn."

My contentious co-worker thought he was insulting me. Little did he know that I was tickled chartreuse by his observation. Even better, he'd given me the PERFECT opening for a return salvo. Without batting a single wicked eyelash, I replied, "Good Goddess, I hope so!"

A lot of years have passed since that day. I've changed professions and cities and the color of my hair multiple times. I've made a few enemies (like Young Sous Chef) and lots of friends.

As the hands on my biological clock reach the hour of the crone, am I any closer to living my dream? Sort of.

My hair is silver, but it comes from a bottle. I have only one black cat, and also a giant white poodle. I shocked family and friends alike by actually getting married. And I learned that earned midlife wisdom doesn't help to circumvent the midlife crisis.

After 5 unorthodox decades, I've decided it's time to document my journey. If you'd like you can come along. Just make sure you keep your ball off my lawn.