37, part 2.

Today I’m celebrating my 37th birthday here at beautiful Cumberland Bay State Park. The weather is gorgeous, with a mild breeze coming across Lake Champlain from the south. The sky is sunny, the temperature is mild at 79 degrees.

Being the type to constantly take stock of my life, today is really no different than any other day in that regard. Then again, perhaps it’s a little different because I’m looking back at the past 37 years and thinking about where I’ve been, where I am and where I’m going.

I have no regrets. There are many things I’d still like to accomplish during my life, but I’m happy where I am today. I’m lucky to have found the love of my life at an early age. I wouldn’t trade in one moment with Earl for any other and I look forward to honoring the tradition of “’til death do us part.” Hopefully that won’t come any time soon.

I’ve been adventurous enough to be on my third career and being a mild success at it. Not bad for a guy that went to college for something entirely different than what I’ve ever done and I never had earned that college degree anyways. I probably will never earn a college degree, as I’m too busy learning and being fascinated by life to settle down and get a formal education. Unless I follow my self-employment dream and finally become a barber. I’d really like to be a barber.

One thing that I would like to learn is French, but being the practical one I would like to learn the Québecquois variety. I want to be able to speak it, I want to be able to write it and I don’t want to be embarrassed by my pronunciation of it. I remember bits of my high school French classes. Je m’appelle Jean-Patrick. Comment t’allez vous?

I want to sky dive. I’ve bungee jumped, now it’s time to do the real thing. Now to convince Earl that I would survive the ordeal without the need of a bionic rebuild after I landed.

I want to be a private pilot. I’d like to own a brand new Cessna Skyhawk and tour around the continent by air, without the hassle of baggage claim or the worry of a terrorist sitting in the seat next to me. I’d like to make my father proud by following him on a flight one Sunday afternoon, kind of like we did when I was a kid.

As Earl plays Solitaire at our picnic table and I read bits of this entry to him, he comments, “Finally! At 37 years old, he’s finally finding himself.”

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