I met an amazing woman this summer, who, for the most part (if you glanced over the tragic relationship with the man who she was with for 20 years, whom she still co-owned her home with, but did not live with since he had decided to have an affair with the renter of their previous home on the same property about five years ago, but whose son and his girlfriend she still entertains as if it were her own son and guest in the home that his father is not allowed to live in since he still has 'relations' with the new woman), has had a good life. She has a lovely little house with a beautiful garden, pictures of her travels all over the world, and a smile that beckons even the most shy out of the shadows.
I want those things (save the tragic relationship, which, hopefully, is behind me) now. I want to have the intensely satisfying career and the cozy home on the beautiful property and wisdom etched into the backs of my hands from the sands of Morocco and from washing potatoes to store for the winter. I want free time to figure out the best recipe for using up the last of the huckleberries and accolades from my peers all over the world. And I have to wait. I have to wait probably as long as she did, and considering she is 40 years older than me, that might be quite some time.
But, in the age of immediate gratification and lack of patience for developing self, that sounds like a lifetime. Strange thing is, it is. And it probably felt like it then.
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This post makes me want to meet her that much more.
Goes to show though, that even the ones with their shit together, the ones we look up to still have boy trouble.
Does that mean that even when I have my little house with the soaker tub, the wood stove and the book-lined nook, that I will still be agonizing over the details of my relationships? *sigh* You better continue to live close by so you can come over and hash it out with me.
Good to see your name up here. Welcome Ms. Whimsy.
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