How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something but to be someone.
Let me be clear on this. In some ways it seems your mid-thirties is designed to make you realize how far you have fallen from your twenties. (Oh- in your early thirties you are falling but are not far enough removed to recognize it!) So I feel compelled to be so personally define that I continue to try out somethings like suits my husband, in his early thirties, used to put on in the morning. This month I seemed compelled to try the Modern Southern Sophisticate. This is not intentional, but it was only after combing the Zara website for 2 hours this morning while attempting to pickle my own cabbage and perusing the July Garden and Gun.
I desperately want to be the girl on the cover with European
sensibilities and a Southern lake party to attend!
The fact is I sit at my home computer in the Southern burbs drinking a mix of Chamomile tea and vodka (definitely not a G&G approved cocktail) maternally affirmed that my son's identity is safe in the knowledge that he can build the largest marble tower ever and that I might be able to pick a Zara-inspired outfit tomorrow to strike fear into the heart of the males I work with.
So it is no surprise that I am not the same person I was in my twenties. There is also no surprise that my focus is increasingly on the accomplishments of my son, and in supporting my husband (add in personal fitness, commitment to family nutrition, home improvement, and general family logistics), but in all honesty that is sometimes not very satisfying. The idea of being someone rather than what feels like a jumbled amalgam of somethings is inviting.
A foreign concept: while I (strangely) identify with Coco Chanel (who might be the furthest from me as humanly possible if playing the which celebrity do I most resemble game) I can not pretend to tell you what my someone would look like.
