Today was a perfect Sunday. I slept in, read a just for fun novel, did some tidying, watched episodes of season one The Sopranos, listened to some Chopin, and visited with neighbors. A day to relax and collect my thoughts. Someone came by for some impromptu work, and I turned him away. Today was my day. I had soup and bread and butter, and a yummy cheesy egg and pasta dish. I did do some work related things, updating budget for the World AIDS Day event, but I didn’t mind. It felt good to accomplish something.
I used to hate Sundays. Sunday blahs. I was good at school, but I hated it. Hated getting up early, hated worrying about how I looked, hated the stress of homework and grades because even back then I was a perfectionist. I survived. Now Sundays are mine.
I’ve had time to ponder my life. My birthday is coming up. 25. It’s young, but in just 5 short years, I will be 30. That’s a real adult, none of this early 20s crap. I’m excited. I won’t be one of those women to lie about their age. If anything, I’m going to lie up. It’s better to be 35 and tell everyone you’re 40 because then they will reply “But you don’t look it! Wow, what’s your secret?” Hello, people, am I seriously the first person to think this up? The moment I can get away with it, I’m going to start telling people I’m 48, until I’m 48, at which point I’ll turn 60.
For someone who’s suffered such terrible motion sickness her entire life, I sure have mapped out a very interesting lifestyle. Go figure. Today I imagined myself in the future. I was a writer and psychiatrist living and working in Berlin, a single mother of 5 children, one natural and four adopted. We were cultured, and polyglot, and played musical instruments like the violin and piano, we knew sign language, and they excelled at calculus and gymnastics, we practiced yoga together in the evenings. And they thought I pushed them too far. And I did. But only because I wanted to open up all the opportunities to them that my parents couldn’t afford me, and through all the privilege salvage decency and humility, generosity of spirit. I got lonely at times, and knew it would have been easier to find a life partner, but I never did meet a man with the exact same ideas as me, and I never compromised. But I was at peace. I’d find my big love at an older age. It was my destiny. I saw patients and wrote columns and poetry and that ever-reaching novel. I had lots of friends. Friends who painted, friends who photographed, friends who wrote, and politic-ed, friends who traveled, and friends who lived off trust funds, and friends who advocated the poor, and friends who were poor, like I used to be. We had round table discussions over endless espressos through billowing clouds of tobacco pipes, because I only smoked in Europe. We listened to Joni Mitchel and my children studied abroad, and we summered in Switzerland, France, England, Spain, Portugal, and Italy. They were learning Japanese in school and I’d tell them how their grandmother was born there, and how at the age of 13 she stopped thinking in Japanese and started thinking in English. And they would complain to me, and I’d say “Enjoy it, it might not always be this way.”