If given a chance to do life over (okay, this is a fantasy), I wouldn’t, because of twenty-nine, the most horrendous year of a life anyone could possibly imagine. I was turning thirty and I had not done anything that I could really put a value on. In those olden days, you couldn’t trust anyone thirty or older so my life was rapidly drawing to a close without note, without accomplishment.
During my thirtieth year, we, my ex and I, sold our house, packed up everything we owned and moved to the really big city. Two pivotal years in a row. Now if I could redo thirty twice and skip twenty-nine all together, you might just sell me on the idea, otherwise, forget it.
Thirty was the most serene blessing one could receive. All was lost. It was useless any longer to be concerned about accomplishing anything. As they say, that boat had sailed. Strangely, the desperation in a matter of hours simply melted away, “…From off my breast I felt it roll, And as it went my tortured soul Burst forth and fled in such a gust That all about me swirled the dust,” to quote Millay.
Life began as though anew. Wish my ex had felt the same way. I guess it’s that male/female thing because four years later she experienced turning thirty much differently and we divorced the following year. That’s okay. If we’d worked it out I’d have missed the upgrade.
Besides that I have already determined that I have never made a mistake that I wouldn’t want to repeat—I have profited from almost every one and if not I enjoyed the heck out of it. Hey, I’m seventy-one and I still haven’t done anything that I can really put a value on and it doesn’t bother me the least. If anything, much to the distress of friends and family, I take some pride in that.
I have lived to the fullest the life that I was intended to live. What could be better than that? If I could only blot out the memory of Twenty-Nine.
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