I’m going to be 35 in three days. It’s not the worst thing to happen. Jarring, considering my memory bank seems stopped up at 1995, everything thereafter traversing space-time like an interstitial gnat. Time went quick.
So here I am, too old for excuses. I still don’t understand equity and I can’t buy a car without Rich, but the confidence sector in dorkdom is expanding exponentially, certainly moreso than in my 20s. I have to trust that my 40s (!) will be even more idontgiveashitwhatyouthink. Maybe I’ll even get that tattoo I keep talking about, already being intimately familiar with my problem areas and no-fly zones.
For my birthday, Rich set up kidcare and petcare, told me to pack for warm weather and sent me on my panicked prep-the-house-for-travel way. So it’s after two days of laundry that I sit here with Rich, two laptop monkeys waiting in Baltimore for our connecting flight to Boston. Bahston.
I spent the first flight in a fitful sleep, and am now preparing for a second leg of reading and introspection. Tonight will be spent touring the city and finding our withoutkids legs, gearing up for an ‘epic’ St. Patrick’s pubcrawl. I have NEVER celebrated St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve never drunk green beer or worn an Irish T-shirt, and I can’t for the life of me understand why we’re entitled to any of it. But I’m game, and I’m 35, so I have to prove that I can still hang.
But Saint Patrick (is that a person?) is not the point of this trip. For my birthday, Rich geniously decided on Salem, Mass, a place I would have forever wondered about and never visited. I intend to buy a fanny pack, go on every tour I can find and return home with a pentagram-engraved spellbook.
I know that Rich has swindled me into a trip to drunkguy utopia, but I don’t care. I’ll let you know how it goes.