Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Back to Square One
I have a notebook in which I write by hand, in pencil, everything I believe is best not said aloud, ever, not to anyone. When the notebook is full, I shred and recycle it. You wouldn't believe the things I hear in the treatment room. I also pencil thoughts I consider to be potentially embarrassing. For instance, just the other day I wrote, 'I don't want to grow old alone.'
Right after that I decided the best way to turn sixty (which is, in my mind at least, the beginning of early old age) would be to pay what is a fortune for me so as to come of early old age in the presence of a bunch of hauty Parisians. If that isn't the absolute essence of growing old alone, I can not imagine what is.
I want to make sixty very special but I keep thinking of honoring this important birthday in terms of what is customary in our society. First I thought I would have a party, until a friend quickly disavowed me of the urge by reminding me how much I hate parties. I really do.
My next least favorite activity is traveling. Hence, though romantic and cinematic as an idea could ever be, this plan to go to Paris for a few days was ill conceived.
I knew the second I woke up this morning that Paris for my birthday sounded right, looked great and glamorous on paper and received a tremendous groundswell of support among my friends. Except it would be all wrong for me, the person I actually am.
Paris is off the table until after my sister retires later this spring (she is very interested in going). I sent my passport in for renewal anyway. It's a good idea to be ready to flee the country at a moment's notice, but it won't be Paris for my birthday. Unless I change my mind again.
I know I am very odd. At least I'm funny.