Flying Solo

Last spring as I turned 62, I got that climbing-out-of-my skin restless feeling again, creeping up on me like old underwear, and just as annoying. Why can’t I be regular — happy with the normal routine of life, shopping at Target, reading People magazine and scrapbooking or whatever other hobbies people conjure up to pass the time until they die? Not me. After a spurt of regularity, I get ants in my pants and once it starts — sure as the sunrise — my head and heart are off to the races, planning my next knuckleheaded exploit. It used to drive my family bonkers — me quitting a job, or moving, or getting a chest tattoo — but bless my sibs and children they now just roll their eyes and wait. My youngest son says I’m just a #badass which I think is the highest compliment a mom can get.

The little elfin voice that shepherds in the next adventure always opens the curtain with this question: What is it you need, Philly? When was the last time you felt really alive? And it’s pretty much the same answer these days: I need to shed some shackle or other and head out into the wilderness. I am happiest when I’m wandering around outside, looking at stuff, not unlike a dog hanging out the passenger-side window, mouth wide open, joyously drinking in the whole show. In fact, I think I’m just a black lab trapped in the body of a 60-something female and the beauty of all this is that at my age, I can do whatever the fuck I want, which dogs do with ease at any age.

This yearning to be free caused a boatload of trouble when I was in my thirties and forties, trying to coral my teenage…