I remember being about 7 or 8 years old, a couple of the few years I had my very own room (which I rarely used because I would crawl into my mom’s bed at some point during the night), and always thinking about the future. When I was 7, I wanted to be 10; when I was 10, I couldn’t wait to be 15; when I was 15, I couldn’t wait to turn 18, and then 21!
I would fast forward to the future, and I would think: my best years are going to be in my mid-twenties! I mean, I’ll be over 21, so I can go out with my girlfriends, I’ll probably be living somewhere like New York City, working somewhere cool, and I’ll get all dressed up and beautiful (like a dress and heals, not jeans and a cute top), and go out for drinks with my girlfriends for happy hour, and we’ll flirt with boys, and everything is going to be perfect (think maybe Samantha Who meets Sex in the City).
My reality: so much better. For one: I hate getting dressed up, my daily make up is basically mascara. For another, by the time I’m off work I don’t want happy hour: I want to go home to Jeff and figure out dinner. I also found out in college that as much as I liked going out with my girlfriends, I was terrible at flirting! I definitely think these are some of the best years of my life: Jeff and I are figuring everything out, and enjoying every second of discovering our future and its possibilities together. It’s nice to look at where you thought you’d be in life when you were little, and realizing that it’s nothing like what you expected, but still so much better.