Introductions and Lost Wine

2018 is a big year in my house. We'll celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary; our son will leave a good portion of his childhood behind as he turns 13 and begins junior high; and I will become 40.

Age does not define us, but it is part of who we are, just like our body type, our marital status, our habits and our careers. I am not an overweight 39-year-old wife who drinks too much and spends her days calling delinquent teenagers to the office for suspensions. I mean, I am all those things, but those things are not who I am.

The pressure, as I stand on top of the hill and feel the pull of gravity from the other side, stems from all the questions that keep popping up about "who am I?" and "what have I done with my life?" and "where did I leave my wine?" The only person who can answer this horse crap is the same person asking the questions. Therein lies the conundrum, and the reason for this journey. This whole thing will be messy, chaotic and nonsensical, but hopefully cathartic and meaningful, as well.

Come September, I need to know I can accomplish more in my life than finally empathizing with Billy Crystal's character in City Slickers. I need to know I'm leaving my mark, and I don't think I'm the only person on the planet who feels like this. We've come a long way from Valium with vacuum cleaners, but there are days when I see the tumbleweeds of dust rolling across my living room floor and wonder if they looked as hopeless to housewives in the 50's.


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