This photo has nothing to do with what I’m going to write about. I am mostly intrigued by, and a little afraid of, the espresso negroni, which combines two things I vastly enjoy. I also really like the name of Lost the Plot. It looks dangerously good.

A friend sent me this photo while she was out for dinner. This same friend convinced me to go to a bar on new year’s eve where I felt old and over – sequined, and was unfortunately not drunk enough to forget these facts enough to simply enjoy myself.

Has that ever happened to you? It can be some underlying anxiety, or fear, or something, and if you’re not planning on getting blind drunk, it’s like whatever is underlying prevents you from getting to that happy, buzzy place.

I’ve been told I’m a happy drunk. I tell everyone they’re awesome and befriend all the women in the bathroom. My Meyers-Briggs straddles the line for introvert and extrovert, with a slight leaning toward extroversion. Alcohol enhances this, but the withdrawal pushes me the opposite way the next morning.

This whole post could degenerate into drinking stories, but I’m deciding now not to do that to you.

Instead, I have a revelation: I have lost the plot.

I am 39 tomorrow and I have no idea what I’m doing with myself. I have no real goals or objectives or purpose. I should probably start thinking of some, but right now, I am okay with not knowing. Right now, I’m sitting in a cafe listening to Simon and Garfunkel while my son is practicing his printing and my daughter is learning mandarin with a tutor. I went to the gym this morning, and am going to church later. Maybe I’ll go skiing this afternoon. I woke to the sound of avalanche bombs (only here would the sound of bombs in the morning be a sound that incites excitement) as I do each winter. I have to go to work tomorrow. Then I’ll probably go to spin class in the evening.

And then, it will have been another revolution of the orb around the star.

I did not die. We did not die. Maybe that’s the crux of the plot.