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So tonight I caught up on some internet reading, mostly the blog of an outlaw. Her writing really brings into perspective my shallow and petty ruminations. She writes of trouble and pain and about facing personal trials that I don't know I would survive. At least not without preparing a PMS defense for court.

I went out to talk to Indy about it, in general terms, which led to a random and fascinating conversation about family and the way parents can create an atmosphere of failure and competition without even being aware of it. This is on my mind too because of the impending visit of Indy's father and my own spiky relationship with my mum and siblings.

And then, in our tangential way, we started talking about the things we wanted to accomplish, or rather, the things we did not want to become. Indy said, "I don't want to end up all old and wrinkly thinking I shoulda/coulda/woulda." But I think we must all end up with shoulda's at the end. The real question becomes "What could I do now?" or rather, "What will I do?"

We all lose track of things, at least I hope it's not just me. I had plans before I got knocked-up, plans of going to school full-time. I had a fantasy of going to visit the German in London (hereafter referred, lovingly, as Gil) and somehow staying in Europe. Becoming an ex-pat who writes scathing things that end up changing America into a place I want to live.

Of course, I put all that away gladly in exchange for what I have now, but I remember it all. The dreams still float around, popping up on nights when I've lost my temper and punched the wall, or discovered just how hard I can throw a book. I realize that all that traveling, sleeping with inappropriate men in foreign countries, finding lost treasures, and being witty and smart in Parisian cafes, all of that is not going to happen. Instead I love my man, put the dishes away, sleep soundly and safely, and laugh as my kid learns to walk

I look out the window, at Indy and the Nib sitting in a lawn chair, sharing leaves and bottle caps, and I wonder why I am discontent. Most likely because I didn't choose 100% of this life. The Nib chose most of it, the little brat. And we make up the rest as we go. I'm not one of those people that can walk away from my possessions and feather pillows. I don't want to be. But part of me wants to be able to walk out of the house for several hours without responsibility or accountability. Looking like, oh I don't know, someone hot and talented. Looking like danger and a feeling like a new Jones Soda flavor. I want to speak sparks, invigorate idleness, perpetuate politics, and maybe even break a few hearts. I want to feel smart for a few hours, and interesting, and know what's hip with the cool cats.

Ya know, I'm gonna end up eating fish & chips tonight, watching a movie while I crochet, and nudging Indy when he starts to snore. Right now this is a good night. But don't think for a second that other me isn't buzzing in the back of my mind, whispering about stolen cars, stiletto heels, and sipping Syrah on the Seine.