Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Some thoughts

Some thoughts...

35 tends to be the age where women are usually half-way to where they are going with their lives. They either chose the housewife route early, and have half grown children, or are well established in their careers, and are just contemplating motherhood. Or they are late bloomers, like me, who feel like they are perpetually stuck in the middle, on paths that wiggle and worm. I have always been a restless late bloomer, normally content to do her own thing and let life carry her where it wants her to be. Career wise, Ive done quite a few jobs in my time, some more legal than others, and have learned from most of them. When I was younger, I always assumed Id have a child some time, when it was meant to be. I always liked being a late bloomer, because the expectations that I would amount to something stupendous and monumental had relaxed, and the pressure to be something I'm not had lessened. At 35, I find that I just am. I exist in the world and since the first flush of promise has passed me, if I do something earth shattering now, it will come as a completely pleasant surprise to my family and friends. I felt this complacency until the phone call at dinner on Saturday night.

Saturday night I realized now that age is not the friend I thought it was. The realization that some things have to be done before you get too old to do them hit me right between the eyes, the proverbial curve ball I didn't see coming to dodge. Now, I am afraid like I have never before been in my life. the possibility of giving my husband the one thing I want and thought I could give him just might have been given by someone else. The look of astonishment and awe a man gets when they get this particular gift for the first time has been taken away from me.

A painter wants to paint a picture, one that can only come from her talent. It is so special she wants to give it to her love, knowing he has never had anything like it before. She looks at the canvas, and keeps looking, unable to get the picture on the canvas. Her love knows how hard she tries to paint the picture, but it just wont happen. Then, in an instant, she looks around and that special painting was painted by someone else, ans she will not be first to give it to her love. Meanwhile the canvas still sits propped up, bare and empty, waiting.