"When I meet her, I’ll be twenty-six. I will have already had a white hair. I will have written hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of pages. I will have never won at online poker. I will not have a single impressive trophy on the pedestal that sits empty in the center of the room. I will be the kind of person who cares about other people and makes a difference in their lives. And that’s the kind of person I want to be.
And also a writer, at the same time. It does happen occasionally."
I turned 26, 59 days ago today. I have more white hairs than I would care to admit - and the little sneaky weasels are congregating about my left temple/above my left eye. I think they are enjoying each others company.
You know I'm hoping for this
I am still at university - I have a BSc and Honours degree, and, fate willing, a PhD in a couple of months. I am single, but own a house (like that makes a difference? societally instilled social norms much? What - not married at 26?!), a cat and a dog, and none of my novels have ever made it past the first chapter (Shhh - that's a secret, no one knows that about me).
I would also like to think that I am the kind of person who cares about other people and makes a difference in their lives. I would do anything for my closest, dearest friends, and I hope they know that. I think they do. They mean more than the world to me.
I also love that Kate seems to write so often about not being all put-together and adult and grown-up and successful and so on - and yet when I read her writing, to me - she is. Perhaps someone else reads my words and thinks me put-together and adult. What a happy thought (you'd be wrong - but happy nonetheless).
And in a final complete regression - Sugarplum came for dinner last night and noticed my speedo reading - we had to pull over on the way home, once it ticked over to 5, to get a pic.