I love you, I love you not

It’s strange to remember back to the time when I thought my parents had everything figured out and my grandparents were ancient. Now that I’m both a parent and a grandparent, my perspective has changed a bit. 

Most days I feel like I have almost nothing figured out. Take this week. 

We went from we’re definitely giving up Paris when we leave this November, to buying two round trip ticket to come to Paris next spring (because they were such a great price!), to cancelling those tickets less than 24 hours later (because nothing’s a great price if you don’t want it). 

We did something similar last fall—and the spring before that. 

Depending on the weather, my mood, or what’s for dinner, I vacillate between I’m never giving up Paris and I can’t wait to leave. Each time we vacillate, I stuff my suitcase full and cart things back and forth. I’m fairly certain my antique latte bowls—which I bought at the Bordeaux flea market and hence are at the top of the list of things I’ll never give up—will soon achieve gold status on Air France. 

It’s the same with my clothing. Last fall, I brought all my clothes to Paris. Now, I’m returning half of them to the United States. A year ago, when Pat decided to buy a car, I was okay with the idea because we would soon be house-less in the US and needed a place to store things (I mean honestly, if that sentence isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is). Half my clothes are now destined for the trunk of that car. 

To net this, I have everything figured out except where I want to live and what I want to do with the rest of my life. 

Let’s face it, in the context of current world issues, me deciding how much time I want to spend in Paris isn’t generating a ripple. The bigger issue, at least for me, is the question what do I want to do with my life?. 

During one of several maybe-I’ll-write phases, I signed up for a travel writing class in Paris. So come early August, I’ll be returning for that even though my aspirational-writing phase has passed. The class starts September first, and I have exactly zero story ideas. I’ve spent a fair amount of the last month convincing myself that writing is my hobby, and it’s good to have hobbies. Right?

But it’s during these writing forays that I am most acutely aware of my age. The last class I took featured a 15-year-old who eventually went onto Princeton and had just spent the summer as a Tumbleweed at Shakespeare and Company bookstore. Meanwhile I had just completed menopause. Suffice it to say, it’s not always easy putting yourself out there. 

Recently, while bemoaning all this, a friend reminded me that I’m only as old as I feel. I told her, “In that case, I’m still a 15-year-old high-school smart ass.”

“That sounds about right,” she quipped.

Perhaps that’s why I’m still trying to figure out my life. Because I’ve deluded myself into believing I’m 15 and everything still stretches out before me. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. After all, Grandma Moses started to paint at 77. (Full disclosure: I did go through an ill-conceived sketching phase not too long ago.)

This brings me to a conversation I had with my son Ryan just before he moved from Denver to Philadelphia right out of college and with no actual job prospect. One night before he left, he asked me, “Do you think I’m crazy?”

I told him, “Don’t worry. The highway runs in both directions. Plus, it’s pretty hard to screw up your life when it still fits into the trunk of your car.” 

I’m holding firm to that advice. For as messed up as all this seems, when we drive down the road with everything we own in the trunk, it feels pretty good. Almost exactly like it felt when I was 15, and all the world held was possibilities. 

Categories: Life in Paris, Ruminations

Tags: alternative retirement, Expat life, Life in Paris, nomadic retirement, the world inbetween