It will be 2023.

I’ll turn 42 that year – the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything – according to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

I have no freaking clue of where I’ll be emotionally/physically/spiritually/metaphysically this summer, let alone 7 years from now.

Sure, I have hopes and dreams, but those should  (in the human sense) have taken place at 32, not 42.  My husband will be in his fifties.  I know the Lord disregards age, but I do not even have a hint of what is to come in that time.  If anything.

There’s a chance of us moving – or putting our current house on the market at least – but nothing has been decided.  I love my little corner of the world here by the ocean, but I don’t know if that move involves a smaller house in our beach community or another cross country move, or if I’m repeating the past, a move further south.  As of the moment, there is no for sale sign and no plans.

So many variables, so little time.

I used to have a plan, but I don’t live like that anymore.  So much of it is up to the Lord, His guidance, and what will ultimately become of my job.  Rumor has it we’re merging with another company.  I’m not sure how I feel about all that.  But even so, the details haven’t been worked out yet.

I think that’s the problem with growing older when you don’t kids; the world is your oyster and you’re not planning life around little people who need you for everything.  I watch my peers from the past – all of them have kids – and they are in such different places than I.  In many ways, they are older and more adult than I am.  I’m just an overgrown college student without classes compared to them.

So here’s to tomorrow, this summer, this fall, this coming winter – what events will shape me in the year of 2016?  That is the bigger question.