The author admits she wanted to travel the world. Now she's questioning if she should have been planning for her future.
Courtesy of Jennifer McGuire.
It occurred to me at 3:32 one morning, the witching-est of hours, the worst possible time to wake up. I was jet-lagged after flying home from Norway. My suitcase was on the floor, waiting to be unpacked and repacked for my next trip in just two weeks.I had $247 in my checking account. I didn't want to think about how much was in my savings account because it was probably less.I am 53 years old, a mother of four adult children, a new-ish travel writer, and I am just now realizing that I have made my life a little ridiculous.When I wake up the next morning, I'm easier on myself. I'm not ridiculous, even in the middle of the night, I know I'm not. But I think I took a wrong turn a few years back that felt like a right turn at the time.Travel has always been in my bloodI always wanted to travel. Always. When I was raising my four sons as a single mom, I planned out pretend itineraries for myself online on Friday nights instead of socializing. Friends gave me their itineraries for tours of Egypt, for hiking trails through Portugal, and for a weekend in Paris. I followed along with my morning coffee, thinking, "one day."I couldn't travel then, of course. I was in my 30s, raising my kids by myself. I was working cobbled-together jobs as a local baker, waitress, receptionist, anything at all to pay our bills. We survived together, and my sons grew up. They became their own people in their own lives.
