A glass of red wine. An hour-long massage at the hands of a six-foot three Ukrainian guy from Brighton Beach. Driving home singing to "How Soon is Now" so loudly I sound deranged, with no one in the back kicking my seat and begging for "the ants song." An afternoon without kids. This is no Mastercard advert. This is real. Out on the town I realize in a panic, I've never felt older. Everyone working in the 'hood is suddenly at least three years younger than me. And I've never felt more invisible without a stroller attached to me like a giant prosthesis. My outdated look draws no stares from the studiedly jaded college students in their teal leather boots and jaunty herringbone caps. But you know what, youngsters? Not that you care, because a mom like me or anyone else except your own isn't even on your radar and why should we be? But you know, I've never felt more blessed for being able to live the strollerless life, if only for a couple hours. How fast I can go! How dizzyingly spontaneous I can be! I can stop in somewhere for a pressed sandwich and not have to mull over every possible disastrous outcome! I can fling my dorky woolen hat like Mary Tyler Moore! I can sing! I am a singular, tipsy, kneaded woman. Hallelujah.