Walking Man

Wednesday afternoon was blue-skied and I felt adventurous, so I drove down to Boston to stroll the galleries (and shoot pictures of strangers) at the Museum of Fine Arts. As I entered the museum, I felt the hint of a scratchy tickle in my throat…and by the time I’d arrived back home in New Hampshire on Wednesday night, that “scratchy” throat had blossomed into “sore” throat.

Today is my birthday, and I’m still fighting the lingering effects of Wednesday’s sore throat turned head cold. Whereas last year Mother Nature provided a lovely blanket of snow for my birthday, today is rainy and gray. I’m feeling more than a bit melancholy about today’s occasion: it all seems very anticlimactic with the grim realization that I’m 38 and still have no idea what I want to do with my life. As I reasoned in last year’s birthday post, “Thirty-five marked the year I finished my doctorate and got divorced; thirty-six was the year I learned to see myself as Dr. DiSabato, not Mrs. Schaub.” Last year, I hoped 37 would be simply normal, “‘Just’ another year of Life As Lorianne.”

This year, I have no idea what I want from Year 38…although I have some clear ideas what I don’t want to do with the Rest of My Life, I have no clear ideas what I do want. How do you proceed with the First (Birth)Day of the Rest of Your Life when you don’t know exactly what you want?

Undaunted by rain and a head cold, this afternoon I’ll drive down to Massachusetts to share dinner and drinks with the same girlfriends who cheered my birthday last year. Although Year 38 is so far feeling woefully anticlimactic, I still have hope that margaritas can be medicinal.