During a particularly hopeless period in my 20s, my therapist suggested I make a list of the Top 10 Things I Want to Do in Life. For a somewhat scratchy, unconventional woman, I really ought to have come up with a more original string: get a dog (did it); act (did it); write short stories and poems (did it badly); see a career counselor (waste of $200); get married (did it, did it). One interesting addition was my desire for a short stay in a sanitorium. Though I doubtlessly qualify, it's a goal that has escaped me thus far. Those who have achieved it, however, assure me it is nothing like the restful sanctuary of my dreams, which has vaguely kind nurses, beautiful views of a lake and time to just sleep.
So, while I've done nearly everything on the list, one achievement has eluded me all these years: I have not spent a month in France.
It's easy to talk yourself out of going to France: No money. French meanies. Clumsy grasp of language. No time. The stranglehold of wifery and motherhood. But what happens when you suddenly find yourself jilted by Husband No. 2, deserted by fledgling man-son, in possession of 31 vacation days, and climbing the walls of despair in the middle of a Maine winter?
In my case, I took a brief, feverish spin on Match.com (check out my would-be suitors: "denialboone" [actual spelling] didn't have all his teeth, but he did send along plenty of grinnin' photos astride a four-wheeler, a snowmobile, and a John Deere, woo-hoo!) Barring love, I refinanced my house.
Which brings me to now: I am going to France. I am going to France this summer with money I should be saving for retirement. I am going to France to study French, eat like a bastard, flirt, travel, get lost, and drop myself through the rabbit hole of my own life. You're welcome to come along ... I hope you will.
One caveat: I don't usually write in niblets. So, think of this as the installment plan, like Dickens. And be patient with me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
Aaaah Ma Cherie... this cabin-fevered housewife whose current description of a "trip" is one to the supermarket, applauds and envies you for taking the plunge into the Seine, a bit insane for a conservative old biddy like me, but sounds like you need to forget your woes and to nourish your soul and senses. Sure sounds like you DESERVE IT! Dance in the streets, sunbathe topless on the beach in St. Tropez, gorge on frommage, vin and the bounty of the local patisseries, fall in love and don't forget to bring souvenirs home for your friends! [like me] I shall live vicariously thru what will inevitably be your sensuous, sordid, humorous, outrageous tales. YOU GO jeune fille!!!!!!
ReplyDeleteFledgling man-son here - reporting for duty. Honestly mother, has it really come to this? I"m gone for a couple of months and you"ve become a blogging exhibitionist with a denture fetish! By the way make sure to tell Billy Bob that his illegitiment fledgling is looking forward to the gator hunt this summer>>>
ReplyDeleteIf anyone questions you, I'll confirm the danialboone story. I guess folks would call gals like you and me picky (or snooty?) because we put poor spelling on our "turn-offs" list.
ReplyDelete