I see those commercials or advertisements where the husband gives the wife an iron or a vacuum cleaner for Christmas, and I have to say, I don’t see anything wrong with that.

Yes, I reached the point in my life where new appliances thrill me much more than a piece of jewelry or a new article of clothing. For once, I think I was ahead of the curve on this one.

When the future Wonderful Husband and I were dating, he bought me a blender for my 29th birthday, and I knew he was a keeper.

Other girls might have been a little put off by the fancy garbage bag and duct tape wrapping, but not me. I was too bedazzled by the shiny red, retro KitchenAid appliance that I had been greedily eyeing up on every trip to the store.

Over the years, I added a bright red toaster, a stand mixer, and, wonder of wonders: an 11-cup food processor to my kitchen trove. I treat each of them as lovingly as some women might treat their diamond earrings or an emerald necklace.

If I had to leave my house with my shirt on my back, once I made sure the kids were safely out, the next thing I would try to save would be my mini-chopper, and then maybe my Instant Pot in the other hand. In my book, having the strongest, fastest, most powerful appliance to do a job is the ultimate luxury, and the WH completely gets this about me.

If my love of utilitarian gifts wasn’t enough, I was blessed with an abundance of free time over the recent holiday break, and although the kids were clamoring to get out of the house and go on adventures, I opted instead to park myself in a cozy chair with a good book.

More often than not, I found myself napping. Is there anything more luxurious than an uninterrupted nap in the middle of the day? I think not. In the evenings, well-rested, the WH and I did try to rally and head out to a movie or some sort of social activity. Inevitable, as we headed home, we looked at each other and said, “Thank goodness that’s over.” Then, we’d say, “It’s official, we’re old.” Then, the kids would say, “Jinx! Buy me a Coke.”

The WH and I both coach sports that we once excelled at, and with the start of our most recent seasons, I am again reminded that I’m not as young as I used to be. On more than one occasion, the WH has come home from wrestling practice, wincing and stretching, as he forced his 46-year-old body to keep up with the 12 and under set.

Recently, I jumped up on a starting block to demonstrate to my 6- and 7-year-old team how to position themselves for a start, and I had to take a moment to reassure myself that some time in the past 10 years, they absolutely did not make the blocks 3 feet higher.

A split second before I jumped back off the block, like I used to, it occurred to me that my knees might not appreciate that landing. However, I wasn’t sure I had the balance necessary to back my way off the block. I’m also pretty sure there were some nervous 6-year-olds who were wondering how they were going to pick Coach Liz up off the deck.

As if all of this hasn’t combined to make me accept the fact that I’m getting older, I had my crowning almost-ready-for-the-AARP moment a few weeks ago.

I needed to get a pair of knee-high socks that stayed up under a pair of tall boots. Although I had several pairs, they all seemed to slip down in the boot by the end of the day, and they were irritating.

As I perused the sock selection at the local department store, I came across some light compression socks. They had a cute sheep pattern on them, which is what first attracted my attention, and I had one of those light bulb moments that perhaps compression socks would stay put and not slide down in my boot.

E, my constant companion and voice of reason, asked me why I was getting “old lady socks.”

I should point out that E isn’t always quite so judgmental (OK, maybe she is …), but I’d already given compression socks a try and they were a disaster. A few years ago, one of my feet was swelling uncontrollably, and the doctor recommended compression socks.

At the time, I didn’t know that Lyme disease was the underlying cause, and wearing the restrictive socks only caused more problems. My misery at the time, and subsequent threats to burn the infernal things must have left an impression on E.

So, slightly wary, but pretty sure the complications were behind me, I pulled the socks on, albeit with a few more contortions that I expected, zipped up my boots, and I headed off for a day of running errands.

I was more than a little surprised a few hours later when I noticed a spring in my step.

I couldn’t believe it. By the end of the day, I was consciously aware that my legs were not feeling as tired as they usually do. Everyone thought I was crazy at dinner that night when my good news for the day was the most amazing socks that I’d found. E was just excited that we got to head to the mall again for another shopping trip when I went back to buy several more pairs.

It certainly helps that they don’t look like the white bandage type socks that my grandparents wore. Nope, I picked out the craziest, wildest colors and patterns I could find.

With that decision, I think I convinced myself that I am going to get older, and I’m going to have to make some concessions to getting older, but I still can determine the kind of crazy old lady that I’m going to be, and it can have a fun side, too. When I shared my “new find” with my Facebook friends, several of them said they’d known this for years.

To those friends: I’m a little mad that you didn’t share this information sooner. Another friend advised me that “with age, comes wisdom.” And then, she added, “sort of!”

Then, it all made sense. I’ve always tried to live by the adage that you’re only as old as you feel. Some days, I feel sort of 18, still. Some days, I feel closer to 100, sort of. Sometimes, I feel like I have everything together, sort of, and some days, I feel like I’m sort of falling apart. I guess that’s why it’s called middle age, it’s sort of in the middle of everything!

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.