I am 33 years old. And by the world’s standards, today, I am less mature and successful than I was at 23.  And I haven’t quite decided how to handle that.  So I am going to leave the country.

In case you’ve missed the updates, posts, pictures, or haven’t spoken to me…I’ve packed my belongings and I’ve moved back to Dallas.  I am living in my sister’s spare room.  I am not working but on October 16 I am going to Costa Rica to help build an orphanage. There’s a really good chance that I will try to bring a Costa Rican kid back home with me.  Madonna did it.  Why can’t I?

You know why I can’t … not because I lack Madonna’s star power but because Big Sara has forbidden it. 

    Me:  I am just worried that I am going to try to bring home some Costa Rican kid to raise.

    Big Sara:  Not this trip, Sherry.  Not this trip.

Swear to God, actual phone transcript from last night.  Like I was saying I was going to bring home pineapple from Hawaii, or squeeze in an extra day in Stuutgart.  The trip is neither here nor there right now.  The trip is just one part of a number of things happening in my life right now.  Like trying to follow a pipe dream, and write a book.  Why is it called a pipe dream?   I’ve written six chapters and now have no idea where its going.  What if I can only write half a book and never come up with an ending?  That would be just like me… like most things I’ve done in my life.  I start big and taper off…

I honestly don’t know if any of the decisions that I have made in the past month are the right ones.  I don’t know if I am running away from my troubles and just keep running farther and farther away or if I have suddenly stopped and am willing to find myself.

Am I seeking out God’s plan for my life or just trying a totally different Sherry plan for my life? I have no idea.

Do any of us?  Do any of us really have a clue what we are doing?  Or have we all just happened upon greatness?  Like finding love.  What are the odds?  I mean really.  What are the odds that when you meet someone they might actually be the one?  What are the odds of my friends that met in the 9th grade being soul mates?  I don’t even like who I was in the ninth grade, so I can’t fathom someone else liking me enough to stick with me until now.

Or finding your passion?  What are the odds that when you select your degree in college that its actually going to turn out to be what you love to do?  It baffles my mind.  Like people that become doctors… that at 18 years old they knew what they wanted to be.  And then they did it.   It makes me want to ask my OB/GYN if she’s really passionate about her work?  But how am I supposed to broach that subject with my legs thrown up into stirrups wearing only a paper gown and her hands up my va jay jay.  Talk about awkward.

    Me:  So, Dr. Hardwick-Smith, are you passionate about you are doing? 

    Dr. H-S:  About your pap smear? No, Sherry, this isn't actually my passion.  But thanks so much                     for asking.  

And as a slight tangent, and something that just came to my mind…  Why in God’s name do I call someone that’s had their hands up my hoo-ha by a title and their last name?  Really?  I mean, really?  At this point I should have a pet name for her and I should at least know something about her family. Right? But nope, it all titles and last names with us.  Huh. But I digress.

Back to the idea of making all these choices and wondering if the are right… I guess what I am wondering right now is if I am actually paralyzed by the fear of making more wrong choices?  That I want and need some kind of sign that these choices, these chances that I am taking are the right ones and that things are going to work out. 

Some kind of sign that tells me that I’ll know my passion.  Some kind of sign that tells me that I’ll find love.  Some kind of sign that tells me that the path to both those things absolutely runs through the spare room at my sister’s house.

And as a bonus, Big Sara would probably welcome a sign that said “don’t bring back a Costa Rican kid.”