My birthday is coming. Six days away, and I'll cross another year off the list.
I'll be 42, which at once seems so young and so much older than I think I ought to be. Some days, I feel like I should still be riding around with my friends, going to the movies, and getting a milkshake and fries for dinner. Buying earrings and posters for my walls at Roosevelt Field.
Some days, I think about my youth, and about staying up late, in dorm rooms, chatting with friends, or heading to bars to dance with the wrong sorts of boys.
Instead, I'm sitting here. Wearing sensible pants, married to the very most right sort of man, with our children sleeping a room away. I own practical shoes, and cardigans, and take good care of my teeth.
I think about these things. Among the everyday things I think about - groceries and chores, books I'm reading and friends I ought to catch up with. I think about the time I had when I was young.
It's making me do crazy things - like dye a stripe of my hair fuschia. It's making me wonder what other crazy things I could try.
I think about these things.