Judith Viorst: Confusion

I can't figure out if it's gas or a coronary.

I can't figure out if it's hostile or benign.

I can't figure out if I'm turning into a hypochondriac, or just being sensible.

I can't figure out when we stop supporting our children.

(At twenty-one? At thirty? Forty-nine?)

I can't figure out if not bothering to change the sheets in the guest room in between houseguests is ever an option, or always reprehensible.

I can't figure out why men won't ask for directions.

(Is it genetic or could they be retrained?)

I can't figure out, when dressed in the height of fashion, if I'm looking incredibly chic or slightly ridiculous.

I can't figure out if my tale is enthralling or boring.

(What are those facial expressions? Spellbound? Or pained?)

I can't figure out if wanting all the hangers in my closet to face the same way means I'm obsessive-compulsive, or merely meticulous.

I can't figure out if I've gone from stable to stodgy.

(Is "reliable" what I want as my epitaph?)

I can't figure out if helping yourself to a shrimp from your spouse's plate ought to be viewed as intimacy or intrusion.

I can't figure out  if I've lost my sense of humor

Or if, after fifty, it just gets harder to laugh.

And I can't figure out if everyone else has figured everything out, or whether we are all in a state of confusion.