Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Pushing 40 is better than pushing up daisies
I've never been afraid of getting older before. I don't think I'm afraid now, not so much the physical part of aging anyway. I listened to their conversations. They were more substantial than mine; less about dreams and plans, more about family and life already lived. Am I being overly dramatic? Will I stop talking about my dreams one day? I can feel my heart pounding. I don't want to settle, to sit around and talk about what I did and what I could have done; what went well and what I wished I could have avoided, no.
Maybe I'm feeling this way because I have time sitting in my room healing, not being busy, not occupied enough to forget there are things I don't want to think about. Like wasting time. Like wasting life. A friend says it might be a sign that I need to slow down and look at things a little longer. The OCD part of me wants to start a bucket list, but the flesh and blood Boni part of me thinks that's really truly overly dramatic. Still, I can't help but think of the things I want to do still. There are big things like I want to write a children's book. There are semi-big dreams like traveling to Greece. Then there are the dreams you can't control like I want to see my children grow up to be kind and successful men and women. I want to always wake up in the morning excited to go work. I want to feel loved and give love each day that I have breathe in me.
I don't want to think of the nevers, who wants to dwell on the unpleasant? A friend says it's our experiences who make us who we are. I'll be whoever it is I was who endured whatever it was that came my way... no matter what. Perhaps that's what both frightens and fascinates me.