If you know me IRL (that means “in real life”, mom) then you are probably aware that I have no idea what the hell I am doing with my life 95%* of the time. Thankfully, the New York Times recently came out with a story that makes me feel like slightly less of a total screw up and more of . . . well . . . a total screw up who is not alone. Woo hoo!
Although the article was really fascinating and a must-read for anyone who is or deals with us loafers on a regular basis, it had perhaps an odd affect on me. For a day or so I continued to putz around, proudly accepting my fate as a member of the nouveau Lost Generation. But then it reared its head again, that Socratic bane of my existence: what am I DOING with my life?
So, ladies and gentlemen, I have decided to actually DO something with my life: I am going to Med school.
I decided on Saturday and, yes, in September I will be taking my very first classes towards a Med degree. Impetuous and yet very noble of me, right? I know! Take THAT New York Times! I DO know what I’m doing with my life, thankyouverymuch!
Of course by “Med” I mean “Mediterranean” and by school I mean . . . um . . . traveling.
What? You thought I meant medical school? Are you insane? ME? A DOCTOR? The hypochondriac who eats off of the floor? You want THAT kind of neurosis to be responsible for living beings?
Oh, I see, you’re relieved! Ok then, good, we’re on the same page.
So yes, that’s my big news. After quite the travel hiatus, John and I are headed to Europe next month for a super fabulous, very check-off-the-life-list-worthy trip throughout the Mediterranean. We’ve been talking about this particular trip for some time (years) but finalized things over the weekend – well, at least that’s when I was told. On Saturday I was having a perfectly rational discussion** with John about how stressed and disappointed and frustrated I’ve been with certain situations in my life at the moment, and how I can’t go on a trip because I can’t afford it and that he needs to be tough and just tell me that we’re not going so I can close the book on it for the moment and focus on other things wah wah wah. Instead, he took the sweater off of my head, looked me lovingly in the eyes*** and said “well, you’d better figure out how you’re going to afford it because I already booked the tickets. We obviously really, really need to get away.”
All together now: awww.****
So on September 25th I head to Berlin to meet John (he’ll go to Germany a week earlier to visit family and friends), and we’ll spend a couple days there before heading to Spain and commencing Med School 101, wherein the only anatomy I will be studying will be in cured meat form . . . and I plan on being an excellent, excellent student.
For now, we plan and countdown: one of the best parts of traveling and one of the most infuriating. This trip is truly my dream trip and so I don’t mind the anticipation: a month is nothing at all and I know that the trip will be OVER before I blink, so I’m fine with time slowing down and relishing in what is to come. I’m not sure how I can even express my excitement, but it’s probably something along the lines of being proposed to by your dream man on Christmas morning when you’re 6 years old and he has, like, tickets to Disneyland and a private jet in your backyard that’s full of Moet & Chandon, Shake Shack cheeseburgers, and boxes and boxes of Sees candy and all of your favorite people in the world (you know, like George Clooney and Audrey Hepburn) are waiting in the super-plush fully-reclining seats, waiting for you to board so that you can all watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers together in your jammies.
Yeah. Something like that.
It’s not the best time to travel at the moment as I’m not exactly rolling in any form of dough – phyllo, Pilsbury, or otherwise – but we’re attempting to do these very lux destinations as economically as possible. This takes a lot of research and planning, so over the next few weeks I’ll share some of my tips on how I organize for trips this involved.
So, no, I still don’t know what I’m DOING with my life. I’m still a member of this century’s Lost Generation. And even though it’s stressful and difficult and at times depressing and unstable, I think I’d rather be a part of the “Lost” Generation than the “Greatest” Generation. The Losties had The Great Gatsby and A Moveable Feast, they had Paris and Picasso; the “Greatest” had, I don’t know, The Joy of Cooking and white picket fences. While that idea is enticing to me sometimes, I don’t think I’m a Jello mold type of girl.
So we’re lost and we wander and it appears aimless. But I haven’t given up hope that all of this wandering leads to what I’m looking for . . . even if all I’m looking for at the moment is Chèvre chaud, wine, and paella.
*ok, fine, Jesus, 100%. Jerks.
**total, hysterical mental breakdown of epic proportions that involved tears and snot and crying into/covering my head with a sweater
***shuddered in disgust at the snot running down my face
****feel free to barf/roll your eyes/etc.