Sometimes that chasm that lies between our hopes, and our reality, can be pretty wide. I have to confess I still have a ways to go on navigating that particular chasm, especially when it comes to something I so badly crave … travel.

Case in point: I wanted to get away for my birthday this  year. You know, like people often do when they celebrate birthdays, especially milestone birthdays like 40, 50 or so. Feb. 17 marked my non-milestone 53rd birthday, but I wanted it to be more special than the non-events my 50th, 51st and 52nd birthdays had been. I KNEW I didn't want to spend it at work.

I thought maybe, just maybe, I could spend it away from home, too. Away from the city. Away from the state, as a matter of fact. I figured that such a trip would be the one stone with which I could kill two birds: (1) a desire to engage in fun, recreational birthday activities and (2) Dre's and my worsening case of general wanderlust, an itch we haven't been able to scratch much because of financial limitations … and, due to the society-reporter/photographer aspect of my newspaper job, time limitations.

Our last trips out of the state had both come in May of 2014: a ninth-anniversary Carnival cruise out of New Orleans (thanks, tax refund!) and a trip to Houston to my brother-in-law's annual Memorial Day Weekend house party. The year before that, we'd left the state only for an eighth-anniversary Carnival cruise, plus I attended a conference in San Diego. I know … these are far better opportunities than many people — especially, newspaper reporters married to full-time freelance writers — are afforded in this "recovering" economy.

BUT, argued my bratty side, those aren't not much to brag about when I have so many friends, coworkers, associates and acquaintances who seem to regularly travel the globe. And hey, it's February 2015. Those May '14 trips had long worn off, darn it.

For a while, a 53rd-birthday trip looked promising. We have a friend whose birthday is Feb. 11 and who — despite her own financial limitations — has managed to do a bit of traveling thanks to some good connections and some moxie. She'd paid a timeshare company a dirt-cheap price for seven nights' accommodation, during a week of her choice, at either its Orlando or Daytona Beach, Fla., property. In return for a stay with four other friends, she'd have to attend a 90-minute presentation. She and I discussed the possibility of celebrating our birthdays together in one of the Florida cities along with Dre, perhaps her sister, and whomever else we could throw in. We just needed to buy airline tickets, which, would be only a tantalizing $125 per person, round-trip, if we chose to fly out of Bentonville, Ark. (We'd also discussed the possibility of going with her to Los Angeles to visit and board with a friend of hers a couple of days, then Megabus-ing it to Las Vegas or some such itinerary. But the airline tickets were higher.)

Excited, I put in for eight days of vacation time at work. Unfortunately, that $250 in plane ticket money didn't leap out at us, especially as we were still suffering the effects of moving-related expenses. Also, Dre began to be concerned that once the timeshare sharks in Florida had us in their grip, they'd try to pressure us all into attending their presentation rather than requiring only our friend to go.

By the end of January, the trip was off the table anyway. The friend had taken two weeks unpaid leave from work and didn't have the plane-ticket money herself. And, it turned out, she needed to have an outpatient medical procedure … on my birthday. Florida was out.

Hubby and I tried to plan an alternative trip, an overnighter in Memphis with a male buddy and his new lady friend, to whom we'd helped introduce him. The game plan here: Reserve a two-bedroom suite at a hotel we found through Booking.com. (We were going to do things proper-like —  Dre and me in one bedroom, the lady friend in the other, and our buddy taking the living-room sleeper sofa). We'd drive to Memphis on Monday the 16th and come back late the following evening. I whittled down my vacation-time request accordingly.

After we booked the hotel, the lady friend found out she would not be able to get off work. The buddy asked if we could switch the trip to Saturday-Sunday, Feb. 14-15, instead. We couldn't. I had to cover an event for the newspaper, and besides, I WAS DETERMINED TO BE GONE ON MY BIRTHDAY!!! Dre and I would just go it alone, we decided. I tried to downgrade us to a one-bedroom suite at the same hotel. These were all taken, so I canceled the reservation altogether. After some discussion, we decided Memphis might be a bit too expensive without our companions, and not so exciting on a couple of weekdays. Once again, the 53rd birthday celebration was downgraded — this time to a day trip to our own lovely-but-done-to-death Hot Springs. The Good Times Hurricane had shrunk to a tropical depression, and was not helped by a cold Dre had caught the week before.

It was weather that sounded the death knell on those final birthday plans. Sleet was heading our way, the weatherman announced. I did some work at the office the evening of the 15th. By the time I got off, sleet had started to fall. The streets weren't slick yet, but the car was iced over. It took a while to thaw it out to go home. By Monday morning, I was finally forced to face facts: The birthday that I'd once hoped to spend in Florida had dwindled down to a yet another non-event. I'd be spending my two days off iced in with a husband who was battling a stubborn cold. (Our timeshare-trip buying friend didn't her surgery. The clinic was closed on the 17th due to the ice, and she wasn't going out in it anyway.)

Consolation came in the form of myriad birthday greetings from Facebook friends; a card with a movie-treat IOU from my next-door-neighbor gal pal, and a salmon dinner my sweet husband fixed for me despite his own troubles.

It certainly wasn't the first time weather had messed up my birthday plans. It's a threat for any winter babies out there. Heck, Mother Nature still owes me for a canceled elementary-school birthday party. But you know how it goes: The grass always seems to be greener in the yards of friends and acquaintances. A number of mine have enjoyed birthday trips to various far-flung locales …  a Facebook pal, also born in February, got to celebrate in Cancun just last week.

Don't get me wrong; I'm usually good at putting my Big Girl Britches on and shaking disappointments off. But this disappointment has lingered … and our general wanderlust continues to worsen. By the way, I also battle envy of married couples who have close "couple-friends" to travel with. For whatever reason, Dre and I have had no success cultivating such friendships.

Guess it's time to parlay those Notes to Self into Books to Self, complete with inspirational quips ("Count those blessings. Cultivate a state of gratefulness.") and stern self-lectures ("Stop sniveling and do some real planning for that 54th birthday." )

In the meantime, we'd better start seriously thinking about our 10th wedding anniversary — whose travel plans are still in the air, but for which hope at least still springs.