Drunk and Old

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.