Until I was 40, I wanted to be mysterious, petite, and blond. Finally, with my shocking psychic predictions, I’m mysterious, even to myself. With age, I’m thinner and shorter, so now I look at my skinny bones and think, I’m petite. My black hair has gone gray, so I pretend it’s close to blond.
Every Christmas, I used to ask Santa for a horse. I
bought one as an adult, then sold it so I could afford my son. He’s way more
fun.
With the Covid isolation, I looked back at old goals
and made new ones. When regrets surfaced, I forgave myself because I wasn’t the
woman I am now. When I looked at my bank account, I fantasized about five trips
to Europe. Unable to travel, I threw money at the steep hills in my yard to make
rolling ones and the new long driveway that now reaches my door.
Last month, as the excavator moved earth for six solid
hours, I watched him sweat and jump in and out of big boy equipment. When I
invited him in to get his money, he made a detour to his truck for some
cologne. As a single woman, I just wanted a whiff of a sweaty man. What I got
was a perfume factory. He sure did try though.
After a decade of house and property renovations, I
have a different New Year’s resolution.
I’ll pursue adventures and discover firsts instead of repeats. I’ll make
plans for what I want but try to enjoy what gets dumped on my lap. I’ll work on
contentment in 2022.
Now, please excuse me. I have to go run my car up and
down that new driveway.
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