On Saturday, my friend L and I spent the day walking around the breathtakingly beautiful Ft. Tryon Park, which is right near The Cloisters, a branch of the MET museum that is built to resemble a convent and houses their medieval art collection.

Strolling with L — one of those forever friends who feels like a sister–was so peaceful. So, so, so peaceful, in a high-class psychiatric-institute sort of way, especially when we stopped yakking about our tedious worldly problems and just took in the surroundings.

I know. Most women make a crack about joining a convent at some point in their lives. I hate being so predictable.

But, um, is it too late for me to join a convent? It would offer the freedom from shopping and the outside world that I so enjoyed while at camp in Maine. Mirrors are probably not plentiful and so I could age without having to notice it constantly (plus, those habits offer exceptional coverage of bodily decline–better, even, than a maxi dress.) Money wouldn’t be necessary, so I could abandon my fruitless job search. And I assume dating would be forbidden, making that a no-brainer.

Plus, I have a great aunt who was a nun, so I should be a shoo-in.

I’m the perfect candidate for a nunnery, except for a few minor issues. There’s my agnosticism, which might not sit well with the sisters. It would be tricky to pull off my half of the parenting responsibilities, and most convents don’t serve Sauvignon Blanc with dinner (or even bad Chardonnay, I’m guessing.) And–shoot--I bet they don’t have wireless.

So, yeah, scratch that idea. Maybe instead I’ll buy a membership to The Cloisters, which will allow me to wander and contemplate at my leisure and get me a discount off medieval-style goodies at the gift shop.