At seventeen, I knew I would end up living in my beloved Massachusetts, with a short dark-haired husband (my preferred type) and I would have an active social life. I would go to New York all the time, and be sophisticated and cosmopolitan. My closet would be full of little black dresses. And I hoped that someday I might have a book published.
But life takes us places, gives us experiences, throws us surprises, and no one ever ends up being exactly what they thought they would be. I am living in a small town in Texas with a tall blond husband and two amazing children, and I am a dedicated hermit. I have the most wonderful circle of friends with whom I communicate via the phone and the internet. (At seventeen, I wouldn’t have understood the concept of the internet at all.) And I’ve had many books published. I am happy. Even better, I am content.
I’m not sure if my seventeen year-old self would have entirely liked this vision. There are so many interests I’ve left behind, because you can’t have it all. I only have one little black dress, and I can’t wear it unless I put on a pair of Spanx power panties. And high heels hurt my feet. But I think I’m a more interesting person than high-school-Lisa could have envisioned. I think her expectations, even her dreams, were limited. I’m so glad it all didn’t happen the way she wanted or expected.
So this is the gift of getting older—we have allowed ourselves the freedom to become something more, something better, something different.
Labels: Working life