Execute a perfect double pirouette.
Dance with John Lindo.
Ride on a motorcycle, preferably seated behind a cute guy, going fast.
Ride on a snowmobile, ditto.
Ride in the back of a pickup truck.
Drink coffee in Vienna.
Drink tea in England (with or without the Queen).
Buy paprika in Hungary.
Visit the markets in India: buy saris and spices.
Surf. Not looking ridiculous would be nice, but not necessary.
Go backpacking in the mountains. Sleep under the stars.
Be greeted in the morning with, “Buon giorno, Principessa!” ala Life Is Beautiful.
Have a conversation in French. Be able to understand it.
Write a book and see it published.
See my poetry published.
Plant a rose garden.
Own my own home, with my own things in it, arranged how I like them.
Get my Master’s degree.
Get my Doctorate in Theology.
Receive a serious marriage proposal. Proposals made while drunk, or for movie making purposes do not count.
Be serenaded from beneath my bedroom window.
Be sent a lot of roses, the long-stemmed kind that arrive in a long, white box, wrapped in tissue paper. (That’s how the girls in the old movies always got their roses.)
Train a bird to eat out of my hand.
Get kissed by a cute guy in the falling snow, preferably outside of an Adoration chapel, from which I and the guy have just emerged.
Spend a day on the beach in Bermuda.
Visit John Paul II’s grave.
Go to a crawfish boil again, one of the real, backyard kind in southern Louisiana.
Visit the Florida Keys. Pick Key limes.
Be able to dance in high heels, preferably without falling over.