Funny how your perspective on life changes | Opinion | The Press and Standard
by The Press and Standard | August 28, 2016 5:00 pm
Last Updated: August 24, 2016 at 1:18 pm
It’s funny how your perspective on life changes as you get older. When I was 25, I never imagined that…
A terrific weekend would be cooking quinoa with my husband and obsessively watching videos of a dog diving for lobster.
Roosters would be my favorite pets.
I’d still be unable to sew or speak a second language. I can, however, peel a potato in 30 seconds.
A heated disagreement over the best Jason Bourne movie would cause my brother to hang up on me. And vice-versa.
I’d watch my dying mother’s eyes shine with joy and grace.
I could speak at her funeral and make people laugh through tears.
A famous Olympian would opt out of his gender.
There’d come a day when I’d rather watch a Stones documentary than go to a Stones concert.
I’d marry a man who’d love me in spite of my tremendous flaws.
Meat and dairy would be banished from my life. Lord, I miss bacon. And sour cream.
I’d still be struggling with my temper 30 years later.
Running shoes would become my favorite gear. Ditto for yoga pants.
I’d still actively avoid manicures and massages. The thought of a stranger holding my hand or stroking my body makes me light-headed with horror. Yes, I know this is deeply weird. (Add the fact that two of my siblings are licensed massage therapists, and it becomes even weirder.)
I’d have a smart, funny, loyal, handsome stepson. Talk about a bonus!
My beloved brother, T-Bob, would politically lean to the right of John Wayne. This is a guy who put the “art” in party and never walked away from a good time.
Speaking of T-Bob, who knew we’d become so close that we talked or texted every day? We communicate more now than we did in 18 years under the same roof.
I’d ever stop drinking wine coolers. I loved your fruity, fizzy flavor, Bartles & Jaymes.
The race for the White House would devolve into black, bitter comedy.
I’d still be terrified of frogs.
Life doesn’t stop when people you love die. It’s amazing how a broken heart can keep beating.
I’d read fewer than two books a month. Two books used to be a Friday night.
Men would be wearing guyliner. It’s a thing, I’ve seen it.
I’d be Episcopalian by birth but Methodist by geography. (We live a block from the church.)
Purses and shoes would become something I cared about, even a tiny bit. (I carried the same fringed boho bag from eighth grade through college, until one day it literally fell apart on my shoulder.)
I’d be living in a different state with my second husband. Heck, at 25 I had no inkling that I’d marry at 26, or divorce at 37.
“Criminal Minds” would become my greatest obsession, besides cashews.
I wouldn’t have a pet and be okay with that.
Cooking would remain my Achilles heel.
I would eat salmon in Alaska, conch in Key West and sourdough in San Francisco.
I’d write a book that hundreds of people bought. (This still astounds me.)
“Designer dogs” would be all the rage. First of all, they’re not designer, they’re crossbreeds, i.e. mutts. Second, adopt not shop, y’all!
I’d ever eat tomatoes without a gun to my head.
My home would be in a town with fewer people than my college graduating class.
Bill Cosby would not be remembered for folksy humor or Pudding Pops.
I’d voluntarily stop drinking Diet Mt. Dew. It can be done, people.
(Julie R. Smith, who is surprised by most things, can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.)