In Crowd

Imagine Googling “enormous woman the size of a planet” and finding that your name is the one that comes up first.

I know. “Insert blood-curdling scream here,” right? I’ve had nightmares about this very thing happening — which is why I don’t recommend exercising in front of a mirror right before bedtime or eating one and a half Mars bars while doing so.

Two weeks ago, I made my most impulsive decision to date.

With short but tortured deliberation and an abundance of encouragement from my husband and co-workers, I bought a last-minute ticket to Rome and joined my sisters and my sister’s boyfriend on their vacation. They had only told me about the trip three days before their departure because it didn’t occur to them that I — with my

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways … the ways in which I can have my body sliced open, have my stuff reshaped and then have it all painfully sewn back together in a manner that makes me look more like your favorite movie star.

Happy Valentine’s Day, honey! (Please let those be morphine bonbons in that heart-shaped box.)

Don’t get me started on the topic of dying. Come to think of it, don’t get me started on the topic of being born, either.

I’m turning 35 in a week. So not only am I convinced the end is nigh, I’m also officially one of those “advanced maternal age” women now, which means I’m supposed to be thinking about children and biological clocks rather than Heidi Montag’s plastic surgery or whether Ronnie and Sammi will be able to keep their Italian love affair burning after the popularity of “Jersey Shore” recedes.

Not only that, according to the book, “30 Things Everyone Should Know How to Do Before Turning 30,” I’m apparently five years past the generally accepted deadline for mastering basic life skills, such as being able to wrap a present, drink without getting drunk and — oh look, there it is again — change a diaper.

I’m sorry, but this is just depressing.

I was waiting in line at Target the other day when I noticed they’d moved the Bumpits to the checkout aisle, which seemed a little odd to me.

I mean, that kind of product placement is in no way functional or helpful, right? It’s not as if any one of us has ever been standing in line, mentally prepared to finish off our shopping trip — thinking that everything on our list is present and accounted for — only to remember with blinding panic: “Mother of G! I forgot to get some batteries and some as-seen-on-TV plastic comb thingies to jack up my hair like I’m the second-place winner on ‘Toddlers & Tiaras!’ How will I possibly get them now? I’ll lose my place in line! Why am I always a failure who can never do anything right? I should never have been born! Oh, wait ... They have both of these things here. Nice.”

Far be it from me to interrupt today’s nicotine fits and gym-joining with my drivel, but I feel a little like a Chili’s waitress who just got told to bring some baby back ribs over to the well-known golfer at Table 4. In other words, I’m rushing to put on some lipstick, but I’m not really expecting this to turn out so great.

Likewise, while I was celebrating last night, I just couldn’t get into the New Year’s spirit — and it’s not just because those stupid 2010 glasses made me look like Harry Potter’s homely cousin, Muriel Fatface.

Some people might try to tell you that the season’s biggest spectacle involves Tiger Woods and the growing number of notches on his golf bag, but those folks clearly don’t have cable because, OMG, “Jersey Shore” is where the real fun is.

A woman of highly modern values once advised us in song, “Don’t be tardy for the party. Take the Benz out for a swirl. Drop that top. Yeah, it’s my world. Blah. Blah. Something about being rich. Blah. Blah. Something about being hot. Blah. Blah. Something about being better than everyone else.”

Like most adult children of discount shoppers, I’ve had to cope with the lingering psychological wounds of a childhood spent mostly at grocery store customer service counters, where no line was ever too long to keep my mother from getting a five-cent refund because of a mismarked box of corn flakes.

Yesterday, in a very casual yet purposeful manner, my husband announced — with little consideration for my cats’ feelings — that he wants to get a dog.

A dog.

To most normal, full-blooded suburban wives who drive SUVs, are fully vested in their 401(k)s and think puppies (and, by extension, human children) are adorable and necessary, this might be really satisfying news — which would, no doubt, be followed up with plans to put that dog in a jaunty Santa hat and add him to this year’s beach-scape Christmas card portrait.

But to my ears, his announcement sounded more like, “I want eight kids and a divorce. P.S. I’m friends with Michael Lohan now.”