I don't know if I even dare say this out loud - after all, there's no counsellor standing by to pick up the pieces when I crash and burn (which I will almost certainly do, if my spidey senses are right).
OK. Deep breath. Count to ten. Then backwards to one again.
The truth is (oh God) that....
There is nothing that makes me stand out (except for my height and inability to fit into Top Shop sizes).
I have no exotic psychological struggles that plague me whilst also making me fascinating and artistic and cool.
I'm not battling anything except a pile of ironing and the bank manager.
My greatest afflictions are myopia and mediocrity.
Jeez, I think that just won me 'Mrs Boring 2011'.
Middle seems to sum up everything about me. Mid 40s, middle class, (struggling) middle income, losing the fight against middle age spread, in the middle when the men in my life launch into their latest - ahem - 'philosophical debate'. I'm slap bang in the centre of Dullsville, unseen and unnoticed in my boring normality.
And I have nothing to blame it all on - not even a mild dose of dyslexia to hang 'my struggle' on.
(Don't get me wrong - I'm not trivialising the very real struggles that more than a few of my closest friends and family face every day. I know how hard it is for them, and what they wouldn't give for a day or two of 'ordinary'. You guys know that, don't you?)
But believe me, ordinary is not all it's cracked up to be.
It involves boring, mundane stuff like paying bills, emptying bins, unblocking sinks, making lists, balancing books and cleaning toilets.
There's no get-out clause. There's nothing wrong with me - so why shouldn't I plunge my hand into the scum-covered water in the kitchen sink to remove stray bits of potato peelings and semi-fermented rice?
But lurking deep within is a Drama Queen screaming to be released upon an unsuspecting world. To totter around in killer heels (before taking a melodramatic tumble), wear thigh-high kinky boots and long flowing coats that fan out as she strides down the street, give rapid-fire orders in an imperious voice reminiscent of Lady Bracknell on speed, and generally have the entire world revolve around her. She would use my height and build to its greatest advantage to grab the attention of anyone and everyone that strays within her orbit (rather than trying to hide my bulk in nondescript neutrals) and would present my many failings as part of what make me so WUNDERBAR, whacky and one in a million.
Trouble is, if I release her the flowers would wilt for want of water, the grime monster would take over the house (shortly before it's repossessed to pay our many creditors), new forms of life would grow in uncollected dirty cups, and the menfolk would go into testosterone-fuelled meltdown.
So it looks like I have to keep the Drama Queen safely locked up - and only let her alter-ego, the Inner Bitch, out to play when there's no-one around to hear her oh-so-witty but sharp-edged vitriol.
In other words, I'm back where I started - stuck in the middle, like so many others in the silent majority.
Maybe we should start a support group?
"Hello, my name's Mandi and I'm ordinary...."