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I Was Born Under a Wandering Star
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Do you remember that Lee Marvin song from many years ago?
Mud can make you prisoner
And the plains can bake you dry
Snow can burn your eyes
But only people make you cry

Yes, I'm happiest when I'm on the road, going from here to there. And, baby, don't fence me in. I can't abide being tied down, constrained, cornered.

And the nicest part about being on the road, footloose and fancy-free? Is coming home again, refreshed and rejuvenated.

I truly miss the weekend day trips, the week-long vacation trips I used to take. I'd go to San Diego, or Santa Barbara, and enjoy a street festival, slouch around on the beaches, visit the Zoo, whatever struck my fancy. Toss a few clothes in a bag, toothbrush too, dog in the back of the car, and go.

My husband and I are talking about taking weekend jaunts when he goes into a nursing home, but it won't be the same. I'll be caregiver, providing constant aid and attendance, and we won't go to museums or street festivals, because he can't walk that far or stand that long. Hardly seems worth the effort, except that it will make him feel better.

Have had my nose to the grindstone for ever so long, and I'm feeling the wanderlust now. I was born to wander; I was born to roam. If I had been born in a time when people could emigrate to other planets to settle a new frontier, I'd have been first in line.

The irony of it is that I'm tied down to a sick husband, an 8-hour job and a house in the suburbs. What happened? Inside this older body is a younger woman wondering, What the hell happened?

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