Tag Archives: working for someone else

I’m a Caterpillar

butterflyWhat did 40 years of working for someone else teach me? Well, it taught me how to work for someone else. I used to think I was hard on myself, but I’m actually a pretty lenient task master. Way too lenient to tell the truth.

I learned how to plan stuff for other people because I had to, and I was good at it. What I need to do is take all the things I’ve learned and put them to use for me. The me that I want to become. Figuring out what me I want to become makes as much sense right now as asking a caterpillar what kind of butterfly it’s going to become. Or maybe it won’t, what if it is going to be a moth. Oh my God, this is getting confusing now.

I know now that I didn’t spend a lot of time planning on what to do once I retired because I didn’t think I ever would or could. I did retire and a year later I’m standing here with my thumb up my wazoo wondering what the hell happened. All the things that I thought I wanted to do somehow don’t seem to interest me now that I have the time to do them. They are no longer forbidden fruit or pipe dreams.

The one thing I do like to do, no matter what, is travel. One problem I’m bumping up against is the Mr. Husband and I have a very different definition of travel. I like to throw stuff in the general direction of my suitcase and leave. Leave being the operative word, the destination only matters if I’m going to need adaptor plugs for my laptop.

The Hubman wants to spend to 2 weeks packing everything into a giant bag that requires a crane to lift out of the house. If his mother is coming with us, wee haa. We all trundle into his giant pickup truck that he has trouble parking anywhere other than the far end of runways in large airports. Preferable the kind that accommodate a 747, which is slightly smaller than his truck. Then the freaking and shrieking will begin. He and his mother can argue about what color the sky is for an hour and a half.

Maybe I need to start some kind of travel planning calendar. This waiting until I can’t stand another minute in this house to plan my escape isn’t working well. I end up lurching away to anywhere without getting to look forward to it. And that’s half the fun. Heading to Kentucky to buy a donut at a truck stop becomes a likely possibility when I’m desperate.

Somewhere in between writing and leaving town there has to be a place for me to get my groove on. I’m going to figure out what it is or die trying. This will eventually happen anyway when I reach the respectable age of 135.

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