Old habits die hard...

     I tried to run away once when I was about ten years old.  The only imagery I had in my head on the subject came from cartoons.  So as a result I got a big rag and in it stuffed my change purse, my curling iron, a change of clothes and few other miscellaneous items that I can’t remember.  I attempted to tie this to a long stick.  That didn’t work.  So I unscrewed the brush from the broomstick and used that instead.  I got on my bike and made it about a half a mile before I cried and returned back home.  No one was the wiser.  I don’t recall my parents being home at the time.    Now my ideas about running away have changed dramatically.  Well, let’s hope they did because I think I would be a little off my nut if I still had the same imagery in my head as when I was ten.   Sometimes at night after my daughter is in bed I get in my car and drive around my little one block neighborhood with the radio blaring.  Sometimes I cry.  Sometimes I laugh.  Sometimes I sing.  Sometimes I scream.  And other times there is complete silence.  The distance has not changed in thirty-something years but the quest has.   Obviously the love for my child outweighs any desire to flee any given situation.  Now my real runaway fantasies include her.  We jet all over the world and stay in boutique hotels and posh resorts that I will never, ever be able to afford without a Powerball win.  We hike mountains in Europe.  We stay in that underwater hotel in Fiji.  We swim with dolphins and speak several languages…dine on the most delectable dishes…and have not one care in the world.  We still carry our belongings in rags tied to the ends of sticks.  Old habits die hard…