OK, so. You know where I mentioned that I made a list of things to do before I turned 30, but this blog is not about that list? I’m 31 now. And it still isn’t. However.
I’ve been thinking about my life. And where it’s going. How 31 isn’t exactly what I thought it would be when I was 21. Or maybe even 25. Except for the part where I have indeed met a wonderful man who is weird in all the right ways, and who I sometimes think loves me more than I deserve. I can’t tell you how much I love him. Because there aren’t enough words. So, that’s the good part.
But there’s also the part where I thought I’d be a therapist by day and a writer at night. With my own shingle hanging on the door of my house in the country. A house that included a husband, who happened to be mine (nearly there), kids (we’ll be working on one of those on the honeymoon. There, I said it. Make it so) and a non-yappy medium-sized giant of a dog (my initial dream did not account for allergies. I’m now thinking a nice tranquil fish tank. 0 to Zen in 3 seconds). The house would smell of nice things like Yankee Candles and coffee and finger-paint. But not apple juice, because it makes me barf.
Somewhere between my copy of The Developing Child and The Norton Anthology of English Literature would be copies of my own books. One of which would be being optioned by Hollywood.
I would nearly drive over the dog’s tail on the way to the phone, an old-fashioned one. My brother would be on the other end of the line, someone who looked like the best bits of my mother and my father put together and therefore like me. He’d be calling to take me out for ice-cream, just because. Like that old commercial. (OK, that’s pure fantasy. One that gets me through the day sometimes.)
After ice-cream, we’d go to Dad’s house for dinner and everyone would be waiting there. We might have pancakes and beer, and then I’d beat everyone at Poker.
I’d sneak my Grandma a draft of my new book. She’d take off her shoes and put them under the coffee-table before reading it. She’d speed-read a la Johnny-5.
‘It’s good. Keep going. And make me taller,’ she’d say. And then she’d wink. With that, I would know I’d won.
Then Sarge (because he’s always been the man of my dreams) would carry our kids, upside-down by their feet, out to our stylish yet big enough mini-van.
And tomorrow, we’d go around again.
Now. This post was going to be a list of things I want to do to get there. Things I still haven’t done. But words are better than bullet-points and lists. I will get there.
If some things are beyond my reach, I’ll just write in the gaps.
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