I’m supposed to be writing about the accident today, but the words just don’t want to form. I live the accident over and over again in my head almost daily, yet the motivation to do so by choice has not been found. Instead I procrastinate as I scroll through the list of writings posted by my fellow bloggers out there. One writing in particular caught my eye.
The post was about a woman in her 50’s whom walked out her front door one brisk morning and commenced to shooting up the neighborhood. She shot at parked cars and closed garage doors. As one would guess the police were called. The police whom after asking her to put the weapon down felt they were left with no choice but to shoot her.
There she lay, a 50 year old woman with bone cancer. Gone. The blog goes on to entail the ‘life’ of an average 50 year old woman and to be truthful, laid nothing but sadness on my heart. For one day I too will be a 50 year old woman.
One day far too soon.
I enjoy reading posts from older woman who pour out the skeletons of their emotions. The ones that rip right to the truth. The feelings of no longer mattering to a society blinded by technology. No longer getting paid any attention in the grocery store, or gas station, or any other place that for so long in our lives men rushed to open the doors for us. A valid excuse to check out our asses. No longer having the luxury of being so damn naive.
I’ll be 33 next month, over half way there. I sometimes think back to being 18, 21, 25, 28. I think back on all the trivial things that were so damn important to me back then. I think back to choices I’ve made and choices I wish I would have made. I look around at my life, my struggles, and I think, if only I had known back then what I knew now.
I remember when my mother was 33. Vaguely of course. Mom was so smart. So grown. So adult.
I, on the other hand, am so lost sometimes. Here I sit, still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up and how in the world I am going to get there. I’m still working on finding my forever home. Still working on that good ol’ American dream.
I look at my children. My nearly 12 year old boy and soon to be 6 year old girl and I wonder, do they see me as I do my mom? Do they think I have it all figured out? Do they think, i’m an adult?
If they do, oh those poor little souls.
I look at my step kids. Sometimes I envy their youth. All in their early 20’s. I’m sure they know I don’t have a clue. I can see it in their eyes when I tell them to grow up, to save their money, to find a house, to invest in a good car. I see them silently shaking their head.
What room do I have to talk? But I wonder, do they ever see that I only want them to have everything that I don’t? I only want for them the very best. I only want them to not be almost 33 years old and clueless.
I think sometimes, if I had only poured my energy into working back then. If I pulled those twelve hour shifts before I had kids. If I had socked away all that money. Oh the life I could be living now. The life that I can only dream of providing my children.
I think about all that time wasted. All that money wasted. All that energy wasted. I was so busy being wrapped up in the trivial things. I never left any time for the things that really mattered. The things that would have changed the today that I have.
More than the past though, I think about the future.
I read these blog posts by 50 year old women. I listen to their heartache. Their cluelessness. I listen, because I relate so deeply. I listen, because I so desperately don’t want to be there when I’m 50.
If only I could go back and tell 18 year old me a thing or two. Though I probably wouldn’t have listened. I knew everything back then. Mostly though, I knew that by the time I was 33 I would have it all figured out. I would be so smart. So grown. So adult.
Sometimes I call out to 50 year old me. I beg her for guidance. Direction. Answers. But she never responds.
Maybe she’s too busy living up the American dream. Maybe she’s smiling back at clueless 33 year old me knowing that I’ll figure it all out.
Or maybe, maybe she’s just too busy thinking of all that could have been. All that she could have had if she hadn’t put so much time and money and energy in the trivial things. All that she could have been if she only had it to do all over again.
That my friends is my greatest fear, that I’ll finally grow up someday, only to realize that I’m nobody. Just another 50 year old woman that no one holds the door open for anymore.