The funny thing was that I had everything I wanted. It started with my room. I had a room of one’s own, a room that I’d always hoped to create. So much white, so much simplicity. “A place where I could really write,” as the writers say. And I had the kind of friends that people die for, the kind of friends who constantly surprise with what life has taught me must be pure, unconditional love – friends who cooked me dinner and thought I was spectacular and answered the phone on the third ring. I always thought that was a testament to my friendships. My friends answered the phone when I called.
But the amount of “more” that I wanted was scary, and so juxtaposed the sweet, easy simplicity of the room I loved so much. In theory, I was happy. “She designed a life she loved,” the gift said, and I suppose by then I had. But I wanted the traditional idea of more: the fancy car, the important job, the expensive hair lady. How predictable I had become, a misguided rat late to the never-ending race. But not too late to join it.
My sense of self-disappointment was real and deep and foreign. So much so that even now it’s easier for me to write about it as if it is part of my past, and not actually, truthfully, part of my present. I wonder about becoming a very specific type of bored and tortured old woman, the kind who orders an old old fashioned because – to hell with it, an ordinary and defeated layer of the person I used to be, with no real stories to tell and no real experiences to hold onto. I ask myself if one day I will read this and just wish I would have been content in the now. That I would have just written in the present, forgotten the past, disregarded the future?
The funny thing is that I have everything I want.