THEN:
NOW
For the past few days I’ve been thinking about what I would tell my twenty-year-old self. What could I say to help her?
And then I began wondering what she might she say to me? Would she be pleased with how things have turned out for us?
With these thoughts circling my tired brain, my husband I went to see a friend play the mandolin.
As I turned the review mirror to get a good look at myself, I saw her. My
twenty-year-old self. She stared back at me with a huge smile on her face.
“Finally,” she said. “We’re going to have some fun. Like we used to.”
I looked over at my husband. Totally unaware that my face had shed forty years.
I turned back to the mirror and touched up my lipstick
“Good color,” my younger self said.
“You think?” I answered.
She nodded. “Remember those old days, hanging out in bars, listening to live music?”
“Of course,” I say. “We partied too much.”
“There’s no such thing as partying too much,” she said, pressing my foot onto the gas pedal.
And off we went.
I thought about my bed, my pillow, that book I left open on the nightstand.
“Stop that,” my younger self pleaded. “So, what ever happened to our drummer?”
“You marry him, unfortunately. And your heart is going to break into a zillion pieces. But you’ll survive.”
“I want more than survival,” she said. “And I want true love.”
“That comes, but much later. When you stop looking for it.”
“And happiness?”
“It’s a bumpy road, but you get eventually get there. Once you stop worrying about what everyone thinks of you.”
Half an hour later, we pulled into the parking lot. Music flowed onto the street.
“I’m okay with all that,” my younger self said. “I just don’t want to stop having fun.”
I thought about what she said as I sat in the bar. I let the music carry
me back to those nights, listening to our boyfriend play the drums. Dancing until the sweat poured down our
face, drenched our clothes, gave us a such a high that we knew we could keep on partying all night.
I sipped a martin or two. Flirted a little. Wondering why that dirty old man on the bar
stool was flirting with a twenty year old.
All too soon, it was time to go home.
“Hey,” I said to my younger self. “Where are you?”
“Leave me alone,” she said. “I’m tired.
“I’m not. I thought you liked to party.”
“I do. But I’ve got to get some rest if I want to look as good as you in the future.”
With that, I tossed my husband the keys and let him drive while I closed my eyes and joined my younger self in
some much needed beauty rest.
And I have to think that she’s happy with how our life turned out.
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