Ennui

So.

Rhys is seven months old. And I am a mere three days and change from being 32.

This makes no sense to me. That I am 32 years old. That I have lived 32 years and done so little with them. That I have lost more good friends than I've made, that I've let so many people and opportunities slip past me that I cling to the ones I have left with what I am not afraid to admit is a bit of desperation. How am I 32 years old, when I still make the same mistakes, fall prey to the same vanities, worry over the same insecurities, think the same thoughts as the silly little me I was 16 years ago - in Kira Nelson's basement or the back of Dave Crane's car or tied to a tree in the woods near Brent Concilio's house? (these are all very long stories. And let's face it, internet - we just don't know each other well enough yet.)

I realize this is absurd but...had I any idea how VERY formative were those formative years, I'd have been a lot more careful with them. You know, listened to more classical music. Paid a bit more attention in class. Learned how to apply makeup that didn't just involve black lipstick and heavy eyeliner. Loved more or loved less, or loved differently. Loved differently, definitely. I had a genius for befriending really wonderful young men and falling in love with absolute bastards. Uffda. This is probably my mother's fault, somehow.

Of course the bastards have all fallen away, pared off my life like the rind of a fruit, (and obviously I got over the habit of falling for them since Sandy is 110% NOT a bastard, except in the literal sense and who am I to judge, I was born out of wedlock also...), and the really wonderful young men for the most part I can look up and visit with on occasion but aren't a part of the me that I am the way they once were. For the most part. Ditto with all of the girls. Though I never really got the hang of being friends with girls...

And someday Le Squeak will be going off to high school and I will be chewing whatever nails I have left to the quick wondering and hoping and praying that he will have all the good and only a leavening of the bad.

32 years old. Ugh. I feel like I ought to feel old. Wise. Accomplished. Instead I just feel like me, only tired.