So where was Mom, Interrupted THIS time?

I was in Boston, masquerading as me. And when I say ‘masquerading,’ I’m serious.

It all started back in October. I was flush with birthday money and a husband who didn’t know what to get me as a gift. This situation happily coincided with a friend who lives just outside of Boston, Massachusetts, who looked at her calendar, realized that she was going to have a free weekend coming up, and so she sent me a note asking the eternal question:

“Why don’t you come to Boston in January?”

Fast forward months later. I’ve blown all those birthday bucks on supersaver tickets and the two of us are sitting in a minivan with non-functioning windshield wipers, along with her two adorable-yet-understandably-agitated children who did not understand why we were driving three miles an hour through a blizzard in a desperate attempt to drive thirty-five miles in less than three hours to a shuttle which would, in turn, get me to my plane, assuming that Logan wasn’t socked in with the aforementioned blizzard and then the light dawned weakly through the snowfall and we both knew why most people don’t come to Boston in January.

And why, do you ask, was this a masquerade?

Because this wasn’t me. The Me who is Mom, Interrupted doesn’t just say “OKAY!” and book tickets for a solitary trip across the country to visit people whom she has not, technically, even met yet, even though she’s been pen pals with them for more than ten years.

The Me who IS Mom, Interrupted is a homebody who overthinks everything to death before finally discarding the idea, giving up, and watching Mythbusters marathons all weekend.

I got more to say about this, of course. And so I’ll say it over the next few days, as I chronicle my trip.

© E.S. Evans 2011