In my mid-40s, mid-life, mid-way, not full or empty, not young or old, just mid, middle, half there, I find myself a student again. I drive to a big university and nose my whale of a mini-van into parking spots wide enough for a generous sized motorcycle. I wait in line to pay tuition fees, mug myself for an ID card and stake out the black market for used books. I squeeze my mother friendly hips into tiny desks with fold-down tops that force anyone with a BMI over 20 to become play dough flattened by a hammer. I contemplate posters hung on campus that invite young coed females to donate their eggs to needy couples. This last one catches my breath.