And, well, I guess I'm finally okay with that. (Or am I?) I'm fourty-fucking-four, and I still want to be that girl. That 24-to-34 something who had an amazing (and I only realize it now) body; who knew good music and sought it out. Oh, and let's not mention the boys...lots and lost of them.
Now? I suffer from a case of musical arrested development accompanied by a simultaneous case of bodily arrest.
What happened? And when?
When pressed, I do know what happened. This is no groundbreaking observation. The life gone; the past mourned. The thing we'll never be again but are so glad we had. It happens to all of us. If we're lucky enough, we realize that it's just age.
But, I had it. I lived it. I wouldn't be who I am now (butt, wrinkles, and all) without it: A past.
Thank you, my past.
You were amazing.
I was amazing.
And sometimes, when all is well and good, I still am.
I traded it all for silence, stability and S. I love him. He loves me.
Do we all choose to eventually inhabit a life that is pale and soft against the hard corners of our youth?