Periodically, I am overcome with acute nostalgia for the glory days. Young, carefree and untouched by life’s harshness.
Life has a way of roughing the edges, taming the wild side.
Approaching 30 is a mental mindfuck. When you are in your early 20s, 30 seems like a distant forever. A threat that will never actually come to fruition. When I was 22 I made an agreement with a friend that if we were both unmarried at the washed up age of 30, we would take each other’s hand and marry the state. It appears time has come and I am left holding the bag.
When I was 22 I never thought I would care about things like marriage, mortgages and other dull formalities that plague adult conversations.
But time has a way of aging your face and your values.
At 29, I have succumbed to mild envy blended with resentment and topped with some wishful thinking. At 29, I wonder if my aging nana will be lucid to see me take that sacred covenant. I agonize over her declining memory. Will she be here to see her grandkids? Will she know them by name?
Longing for the glory days. When nothing was important and everyone mattered.