I Met My Younger Self In A Coffee Shop

I met my younger self in a coffee shop. (Don’t overthink how. Creative license is being exercised.)

We were both early, and we both ordered an iced tea and an orange scone.

She was wearing too much eyeliner, and I was makeupless. Her hair was short and curly. Mine was long and straight. She looked at me with a suspicious, I’m-angry-at-the-world expression. I looked back at her with a combination of amusement and sadness.

I secretly envied her slenderness. She openly glared at my cut-off shorts, flip-flops, and beach bum vibe. I mentally scoffed at her preppy style.

When she asked me what I wished I knew when I was her age, I didn’t mention that she needed to use a less heavy hand on eyeliner or that in a few decades her chin would be a completely different shape from the fillers she had pumped into her face.

But I did tell her that one day she would move to Florida, just as she had always dreamed of.

She wanted to know if I had any children. When I told her I had one magnificent son, I could see her face fall a little. She wanted two kids, a boy and a girl.

She told me she was frustrated at not knowing what to do with her life, and which career path to take, and then asked if I had a great career. I told her I had tried many different careers, none of them great, and that I had never settled on one.

“What do you do now?” she asked.

I explained how I spent many years making jewelry, until I was so burnt out I couldn’t look at another bead. Now I write a blog that, in a good month, hundreds of people read. I sew, I play Canasta, I go out with friends, I enjoy decorating our home, I…

“Our?” she asked. “Who did you marry? Do I know him?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But you will soon,” I told her about the guy I met at one of my many jobs, and how I always knew I would marry someone tall, dark, and handsome.

She asked if I was happy, and I told her, yes, most days, but marriage wasn’t the happily ever after she imagined. It’s f*cking hard, and it would be the most challenging work she would ever do.

When she rolled her eyes - a habit I still have - I realized she wasn’t going to listen to much I had to say.

So, I didn’t tell her that in the next 30 years, she was going to experience a combination of heartbreak, loss, loneliness, happiness, and abundance. Nor did I mention that there would be quite a few days when she wouldn’t want to get out of bed or that she would never feel like she had enough money. Instead, I told her that the good in her life would outweigh the bad, and she would be rich in many different ways.

I also told her that she was stronger than she realized and that she would go on to have a life full of love, friendship, and— gasp! —grandchildren. One day, she was going to be an old woman with gray hair, jiggly thighs, and a pouchy belly who didn’t see most of her dreams come true. Still, she wasn’t going to care (much) because her life was good.

She yawned, reminding me of the short attention span we both have, and I smiled at her naivety.

We left the coffee talk early. She bounced off to pursue excitement, and I, knowing I had not convinced her of much, smiled and shrugged.

One day, she would understand.

Life is not to be told. It is to be experienced.