If my copy of Passages hadn't been thumbed to death, at least I'd know what I was going through now, if anything. I'm not sure I have the makings of a crisis. True, the image of the girl at the Photomat keeps coming back to me (cropped). It probably doesn't mean anything, though. I mean, she must give double prints to everyone. Then there are the recurring dreams, the ones from which I wake up aroused, thinking I've just secured a 5 percent mortgage with no points. Occasionally I bolt upright in the middle of the night, not merely staring mortality in the face but finding her trying to affix a clothespin to my septum. I blame it on the copies of Woman's Day they leave around the Laundromat.

Seems like only yesterday I was having an identity crisis. Or someone was. I think it was me. For years I was beside myself and didn't even know it. Oh, I looked familiar, all right, but I just couldn't place me. This was only compounded by a prolonged post-adolescence during which no one could tell me what to do, even though no one tried. And ceramics, what was that? I started making ashtrays about the time everybody quit smoking, although it may have been coincidence. The Zen did me a lot of good, or would have if I had made more of an effortless effort. It's hard to keep picking up after a thousand-petaled lotus, though. Yoga was not my cup of tea, especially the one you were supposed to be able to pour through your nasal passages, what with the bags always clogging. Plus, all that posturing went against my grain, not to mention my groin. Instead of opening up my chakras, I opened up my kishkes. I had an attitude problem: My mantra was "women in leotards."

This time I'm ruling out in advance any crisis which results in classes at the "Y." Another woman I think I'll leave to another man. Marriage has finally made me realize that I don't have to go out and search for a woman who's totally wrong for me. Besides, I really don't have the time for a proper affair, unless it's on VHS. Some of the other midlife symptoms sound appealing - sudden and uncharacteristic flamboyance, for example - but face it, what self-respecting Ferrari dealer wants a '79 Zephyr wagon on the lot? Who knows, I may be on the verge of the partial wisdom that comes with middle age. At least I now know that "I grow old. I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled" refers to the waistband and not the cuffs.