I am getting old. I suppose not old, merely older. Life is full of never-ending sameness. Its ordinary. Sweet, sweet routine. No matter what I do, I probably have already done it in some small way before. There isn’t much I haven’t experienced, tried, hated or loved already.
I have lived a full life in my 32 years. And maybe there are still a thousand things I have yet to do. Sail the Mediterranean. Go to a rap concert. Bleach my hair blonde. Write a book. Drink a good whiskey in Scotland. See my husband in a tuxedo. Baking the perfect chocolate cake. Seeing my daughter graduate high school. Sending her off to her first day of college. Watching my husband clean his guns at the kitchen table on the night of my daughter’s first date. Eat pizza in Italy.
And yet, for all of the things I have yet to do, its the things I will never do again that break my heart. They overshadow the possibilities that the future holds.
Things that make me recall the days of my youth when I still had the whole wide world ahead of me. When I was naive and thought of 30 as old.
I miss deep, passionate first kisses. Walking out of a club when the sun’s coming up for the first time. Rocking my infant, thumb-sucking daughter to sleep. Discovering the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe. Watching 80’s Madonna sing “Get into the Groove” in concert. Receiving a drink at the bar that was sent by my husband, who was too shy to bring it himself. Getting kicked out of a bar. Getting decked out, smoking hot for a blind date. Smiling at strangers across the room (okay I still do that, but then I avoid eye contact the rest of the night so they don’t think I am flirting).