My drivers license comes up for renewal in a few weeks. Groundhog's Day. A ritual which generally goes unnoticed every five or so years. Not for me. Since I earned my right to operate a car in 1967, I have registered as a driver in six states. Studied half a dozen manuals. Sat in motor vehicle offices for inordinate amounts of time waiting. That's 50% of the Northeastern states, my childhood home of bluegrass and horses where the flimsy yellow paper license could be altered with write-out and a Smith-Corona and former Southern speak-easys would pour bourbon and branch freely to underage drivers, Maine twice and Oklahoma. A new state to call home every 7 years of my driving life. That's about right. I move a lot. Chapters.
Five or so years into my gigs ... my ol' Kentucky home, a college apartment in Back Bay a block from the Boston Stranglers turf, a six-room second floor double-decker apartment in Cambridge near the lofty Victorians and yellow clapboard houses of intellectual power-brokers, a Carnegie Hill co-op in Manhattan a block from Central Park and two from Harlem, a garden home on the edge of the prairie scarily perched on a concrete slab guaranteed to fly skyward by a mighty twister and my lovely 160 year old expanded cape in my New England village and so on ... I start to itch. The familiar feeling wells up inside and my pulse quickens as I begin to imagine the possibilities. Fueled by wanderlust? Ennui? Lack of obligations? Unrequited dreams?
Yikes! Regardless of where I slip between the sheets at night or what propels me from place to place, the next time my license expires I'll be eligible to collect Social Security and to enroll in Medicare. Now that is an eye-opener. Wherever I am going, whatever I am going to do, I need to get my ass in gear. Time's a wastin' ... this auto is pulling away from the curb into the busy thoroughfare heading in a new direction. Buckle the seat belt, turn up the radio, wrap a brightly hued chiffon scarf over my thick chestnut hair so I arrive at my destination looking more like Bridget Bardot than Bridget Jones. Hop in or move aside. This girl's got plans.
Cheers! Until tomorrow.
Five or so years into my gigs ... my ol' Kentucky home, a college apartment in Back Bay a block from the Boston Stranglers turf, a six-room second floor double-decker apartment in Cambridge near the lofty Victorians and yellow clapboard houses of intellectual power-brokers, a Carnegie Hill co-op in Manhattan a block from Central Park and two from Harlem, a garden home on the edge of the prairie scarily perched on a concrete slab guaranteed to fly skyward by a mighty twister and my lovely 160 year old expanded cape in my New England village and so on ... I start to itch. The familiar feeling wells up inside and my pulse quickens as I begin to imagine the possibilities. Fueled by wanderlust? Ennui? Lack of obligations? Unrequited dreams?
Yikes! Regardless of where I slip between the sheets at night or what propels me from place to place, the next time my license expires I'll be eligible to collect Social Security and to enroll in Medicare. Now that is an eye-opener. Wherever I am going, whatever I am going to do, I need to get my ass in gear. Time's a wastin' ... this auto is pulling away from the curb into the busy thoroughfare heading in a new direction. Buckle the seat belt, turn up the radio, wrap a brightly hued chiffon scarf over my thick chestnut hair so I arrive at my destination looking more like Bridget Bardot than Bridget Jones. Hop in or move aside. This girl's got plans.
Cheers! Until tomorrow.
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