Beware of Lists

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.