I saw a lot more for myself by
this age. It feels as though nothing
will compare to this year of my life. So
much growth and confusion all muddled together.
Where will I end up? Will I ever
find that one special person? Will I
have a family? Will I love myself? Was life this complex for a woman of 25, some
25 years ago? Perhaps not nearly as much,
perhaps worse. Perhaps I should not
complain about my current circumstance.
And then the wine kicks in a little further and I feel more
philosophical and weepy. Woe is my
American youthful experience. I just
don’t feel that young anymore. I feel so
little of a connection with ‘my kind’ that it scares me. The surface is easy, but when I drink that
surface wears thin, more opaque than the plaster that I hide behind. ‘You are a grown woman,’ I tell myself
regularly, some lame attempt at sanity in this insane world. What does that really mean? That I shouldn’t cry when I am feeling lonely
and sad? That I should be more guarded
and aware? That I should realize more
about life and accept that my current situation will transform in the blink of
an eye? Yes. Perhaps all of these things are so blatantly
true. Shit. Too bad I couldn’t stay in that bubble. I rather liked it in there.
