There are at least 25 reasons I wouldn’t be 25 again. I’ll write about it someday… In fact, I’ll write about it several times, since I think I can squeeze at least five blogs out of the misery of youth, using an average of five bullet points per post.
But there are definitely a few reasons why, every so often (like today), I wish I were 25 again.
- I didn’t worry about money back then. My job paid $6,000 per year, and I had a little apartment, an old car, and tuna casserole three times a week. I went to the library. If I had $5.00 left at the end of the week, I bought a coffee cake for the office.
- I still thought that any minute I would blossom. I’d have long beautiful hair, streaked with blond highlights. I’d have luscious lips and wide-set eyes. I thought there was still a chance I’d have a bosom. It was just around the corner…
my transformation into …
- At twenty-five I had just recently finished college. (Yeah, I know everyone else finished at 21. I liked school. I stretched it out by a few years.) Life was full of possibilities.
I could go to New York and live in a brownstone.
I could see myself strolling down the street to my fabulous studio with a bouquet of flowers for my table and a loaf of French bread.
- And speaking of French bread, maybe I would end up as an artist in Paris.
This is Manet’s painting of Monet painting, but it could be me soon. And I even spoke French, as long as the conversation revolved around the pen on the table.
- I was never tired. I could go out dancing on a weeknight and get into work on time the next day. Evenings at home, I watched Johnny Carson. I never fell asleep at 9:01. My hips never hurt. My feet never ached.
- I was skinny. I had gained fifteen pounds in college, and that put me at 114. I drank milk shakes. I ate potato chips. Sometimes at the same time.
- Every man I met could be The One. So every day – every glance, every smile, every conversation held the promise of romance.
- And my most recent reason for wishing I were twenty-five again. I am in love…