It’s harvest time, a time when the fresh fruits of summer give way to the squashes, potatoes and turnips of fall. All those good-for-us veggies people once stored in cellars are back and beckoning us to stir fry, steam and roast.

Yet here I sit at 5 p.m. in a season of plenty, paralyzed by a question I’ve been facing daily for more than 40 years. “What am I going to make for dinner?” Yes, this decision is still my responsibility. Let’s just say that the “party of the second part” prefers dog walking and dish washing over meal planning.

“Do you believe in magic in a young girl’s heart, how the music can free her whenever it starts?” as the song by the Lovin’ Spoonful goes. I do! I believe there is magic and mystery all around us. Some say coincidence. I say magic. That belief keeps me young and expecting great things for myself and for everyone else.

What I don’t believe in is body magic – the media messages that promote transformation of our bodies into those of movie stars, supermodels and professional athletes. While we’re watching television or flipping through magazines, we are bombarded with programs and products promising flat abs, thin thighs and numerous pounds of weight loss if only we’ll pay our money and then pop a pill or religiously follow a particular regimen. We want to believe, so we buy into the hype.

This past winter I was watching a football game with my husband and the TV camera panned across the stadium. A whole section of fans raised large foam fists with extended index fingers and shouted “We’re #1!”

That moment got me thinking about what it means to be number one. Regarding what? To whom? What are the criteria? I remember being #1 in a spelling bee when I was in the fourth or fifth grade. And I was the shortest (and heaviest) girl in my second grade class. I guess that counts as #1 (although it’s not on my resume).

Dear women readers, what does it mean to be number one? To put ourselves first on our “To Do” list. Do we make the top ten? Are we even on the list? Many of you are rolling your eyes now and thinking: Is she kidding? When is there time to think about me? To take care of me?