Old enough to know better. Young enough to wish I didn’t.
Forty one is stretch marks and belly fat, and edibles and wine. Parenting and not knowing what the fuck we are doing to raise the next generation right. Financial stress and worries and woe. Wisdom enough to know that there isn’t nearly enough saved in the savings account. Time enough left still (we all think) to save the money later for teenage cars and college tuition and retirement funds.
No time left for the ramblings of our twenties when all of our ideas were romantic and sublime. Just wait until we make our dreams come true…
Just wait and then wait… they’re here. And not at all what we imagined too.
But beautiful in their own way. In the way they change and shift to make possible for our children and the dreams that they dream too.
Taking care of them.. Watching them grow, watching them know, watching them question and drink up this world of unknowns and hate and love.
We all walk the line, all a few bad decisions away from a bed on the street, all a few good decisions away from a mansion on the hill.
Forty one is asking what the hell this all means, not that you never did before, but just that you thought someone would give you an answer by now.
It is facing the wrinkles stretching across your face and wondering how long they’ve lived beneath the surface waiting to show. Staring at saggy elbow skin like an uninvited guest, but letting it in anyway.
Writing badly after wine, but remembering the commas.
Forty one is half way, maybe, less or more, more or less.
Rachael Coughlin 