I now can count on two hands how many days remain in this year. Where I was once an expert at writing 2005, I will once again be a novice struggling to invoke 2006, 2006, 2006. However unchanged our lives may feel moving from December 31 to January 1, there is no denying the authority of the calendar. It forces us to make a measure of our life in twelve-month increments.

Lately I have been thinking of other ways we mark the times of our lives. The other idiosyncratic systems we've all developed to gather perceptions, experiences, and memories in an effort to understand our lives in different ways. These other organic systems have their own rhythms and rituals. They are our own internal living histories. Their rites of passage aren't the ones we read about in books, but they could serve as chapters in the stories of our lives.

A friend of mine has alternated her hair color between blond and red for two decades. It seems entirely plausible that she might catalogue her life in terms of blond times and red times. For her, an intricate web of associations may exist that link one set of experiences or conditions to a particular color. Her decision to abandon one shade to inhabit the other may be motivated by a complex understanding of what it means for her to live blond…or red. One day she might tell her grandchildren a story that begins with, "When I was blond, I got into more trouble, but that was fine with me." Or "When I met your grandfather, I was a redhead."

I recently started a new job selling expensive European-style beds. In the few months I have worked there, I have begun to cultivate an in depth understanding of bedding. I am now able to instruct friends and family about the benefits of natural fibers, spinal alignment, German steel, and wool vs. down. I am becoming, it occurred to me, an expert on the topic. This isn't the first time I have become an authority by association. I have accidentally become an expert before. That's when I noticed one of my own internal filing systems. When I look at my life past and present, I see a series of accidental specialties. Areas of expertise I could not have predicted but form the basis of a personal databank that assembles time, place, people, memory, and feeling.

Thanks to a winding career path, I have gleaned numerous bodies of oddball and mostly useless information. In school, I worked at a drugstore and served as both the photo department and cosmetic girl. I honed my craft at key-making and watch-battery changing before getting schooled in Revlon's library of lip and nail colors ("Cherries in the Snow" was the best red for toes) and the chemical processes for perming and coloring hair. I helped women navigate gel versus mousse and decide which facial mask was right for combination skin. I remember being surprised by how many women needed help and would ask for advice. In spite of my less than sophisticated appearance, women wanted my opinion. They felt better when I said, "Get that one," or told them, "This would be really pretty on you." This era is filled with memories of checking out cute guys, eating Brach's pick-a-mix caramels on break, and worrying about getting my homework done. I remember the drive home from work, looping past downtown San Diego on my way back to the beach, listening to Peter Gabriel or U2, and enjoying the view of the skyline on the water.

Eight years of marketing and copywriting spawned a variety of fortes such as senior-citizen healthcare, Mexican fast-food menus, and just about every conceivable financial product or service. Each forte cross references a group of cool or crazy colleagues and memories of after-work cocktails, nightmare bosses, sweating deadlines, surfing the net, sneaking out for long lunches and Starbuck's mochas, and spending countless hours gathered in various cubicles talking shit. Thinking about it now, I see how these bodies of knowledge were indicative of where I was in my life at the time: gathering professional experience, analyzing features and benefits, and trying to transform the mundane into the desirable, or at the very least, useful.

Of course while some specialties are accidental, others are the natural result of interest and desire. As a girl, I was an expert on Barbie (circa 1976). I had fleshed out a life for my Barbie that included a penthouse, convertible, motor home, bubble bath, boyfriend, non-threatening girlfriend, and one bitchin' wardrobe. I understood the demands of Barbie's life, her blond hair, and the gestures her rubber legs and rigid torso permitted. I was, at least in terms of my own life, a Barbie expert. My Barbie period locates me at a specific moment in time. It's Los Angeles, we live in the house on Maynard Street with its big tree out back and carpeted 1970s-style staircase. It's me and my sister, channeling our ideas of what it means to be a woman through naive Barbie and Ken scenarios. It's the girlhood fantasy of fitting in, looking great, and being sophisticated.

And then there is my toaster. Yes, toaster. I am a devoted, accidental expert in the operation of my toaster. It may sound goofy, but I cherish this expertise. It is born of intimacy and loyalty. My grandfather gave me the toaster years ago. It is a classic Sunbeam from the 60s: a perfect gleaming chrome bubble. Just looking at it makes me happy. Its design is retro heaven, but its engineering is completely idiosyncratic. Impractical even. You see, the lever that drops the bread into the toaster is spring-activated. The spring is only activated if the bread is dropped into the slot from overhead at just the right distance, hitting the lever with exactly the right force. I have this down to an art form. It requires perfect aim and just the right pitch (achieved with a subtle snap of the wrist). Successful efforts are greeted by bread that drops ever so slowly down into its red-coiled home. Guests to my home face frustration and rejection when they innocently try to make toast unsupervised. "What's with your toaster?" they ask. What's with it is the memory of my grandfather, elegant industrial design, and the desire to preserve and appreciate something old but graceful.

Today I am compiling a new set of data on an intriguing new topic: what you can tell about a couple based on how they shop for a bed. I never realized what a potentially loaded, revealing, and hilarious process this could be. Every day, couples confess their sleeping habits to me. Who snores, who tosses and turns, who spoons, who stacks pillows, who sleeps on their stomach, who goes to bed first. I watch as some couples playfully sample soft and firm, concerned for each other's comfort, gracefully negotiating what works best for them both. I've also seen mates that seem determined to disagree and confuse themselves and each other.

I realize this latest foray into accidental expertise once again mirrors the dynamics of my current life. I am in the midst of a new relationship, so it makes perfect sense that I find myself in this funny world of bed-making, serving as an unofficial guide. As usual, I rely on my instincts to help counsel my customers. My advice is simple. Pick the bed that feels good. The one your bodies tell you is most comfortable. Make sure it is soft enough to provide support and contour, and not too firm as to create tension. Don't over intellectualize the experience. Go with what feels right.