Make That Two (2)
One of the characters in the film Waking Life declares that you become a new person every seven years. By my maff I’m thinking that number is way lower. From an email I wrote four years ago to my best friend, re-capping a springtime brunch I’d attended at the home of a mutual acquaintance:
Click-clacking through her luxury marble lobby, I had to remind myself that this was not the life I wanted, that I never wanted to live in a high-rise with a god damned fountain out front, that I didn’t want an apartment on the 38th floor with parquet floors and a teak dining room table, that I wouldn’t trade in my rich and interesting if not complicated and occasionally painful existence to be this bland girl with a McKinsey husband, Princeton degree, and tendency to vote Republican.
Does the second-guessing ever stop? Do I get older, grow more comfortable in my skin, become more assured in my choices? Or will I continue to run a what if scenario on my brain? Everything in my being tells me that a bearskin rug at the foot of a sleigh bed is the most obnoxious thing on the planet, but fuck if I didn’t walk out slightly rattled. ARGH.
Gee whiz, li’l Ms. Judgy. What’s with the drama-rama, “occasionally painful” … ? Oy vey.
Also, I totally want a marble-floored lobby, a high-rise apartment, a teak dining room table, and a bearskin rug at the foot of my sleigh bed.
