I’ve developed an affinity for This American Life. Many a story on this radio show pushes my buttons. Either I totally relate to it, and it’s interesting, amusing, or horrifying, or it’s totally foreign to me, but terribly interesting, amusing, or horrifying. Anyway, a great way to pass a rainy Sunday morning.
Act Two of a recent show (Okay, fine– It was “Getting and Spending” on September 23, over two months ago now and not all that recent) was “That Guy,” a poignant set of tales about becoming that person you never wanted to be. (It runs roughly from 37:00 to 47:00, if you’re inclined to look it up in their archive.) Tucked into the center (around about 41:45 minutes), I encountered this gooey nugget of personal truth, devastatingly bittersweet:
Another friend of mine, who I hadn’t heard from in years, e-mailed me last month to let me know that she was getting divorced. She’s young, 29, and she couldn’t believe the course that her life had taken. The last line in her e-mail was, “I can’t believe I’m that girl.”
A couple of weeks ago, I finally e-mailed a dear friend who hadn’t heard from me in years, and I attempted to verbalize my downs and ups of all that time.
Here I am, 29 years old (only, already), divorced from my high school sweetheart, careening careerless from one job to the next (Next!?)… that dog lady, you know, the flake alternately scolding and coddling two unruly companion canines… I can’t believe I’m that girl.
I want to be that girl who licked her wounds and moved on, all the wiser for it (or something)… that girl who couldn’t care less about being careerless, who just makes the work work… that lady with the two adorable and disgustingly obedient pooches, ambassadors for dogkind!
I want to be that girl.
