Expectations

Back in the Pleistocene when you were young (oh, say 15 or 17 or 20), did you ever picture how your life might be at age 63?

I certainly didn't -- not consciously.  I  never even imagined reaching such an advanced age. Yet below the surface, I am sure I must have had firm expectations. I must have known that my life would be much like my parents' life was when I was 20. What other example did I have?

I would live in a wonderfully tasteful, not overly large house in some pleasant suburb. I would be living with my husband, who would look much like my dad -- pleasantly paunchy, bespectacled, balding; thoroughly benign and kindly. We would each have our armchair after dinner, or our spot on the Ethan Allen couch, as we tackled the hopeless task of getting through a towering mountain of magazines and journals that resided beside us on an antique table picked up in England some time before the birth of our second child. Our two modest cars would be safely in bed for the night, out in the garage. Our children would be long gone, off to their own families and careers, but perhaps a mutt would remain with us -- snoring in his own designated armchair. We would sip our coffee while exchanging occasional erudite remarks. . . .

I thought of this tonight around midnight, as I walked the blocks down Devon Avenue from Western Avenue to California. It was Saturday night. As on other Saturday nights, Devon was bustling, with people of all ages going about their business despite the late hour. The people who made the most vivid impression on me were a group of men and women I had also seen on other Saturday nights, going to or from some social or religious gathering. They seemed to hail from Western Africa, although I was not at all sure of the country. They wore the most gala garb, both men and women in elaborate headdresses. Not for the first time, I had a powerful impulse to stop one of the women and ask her who they were and where they were from and what they did every Saturday night, in their lovely outfits, wafting perfume . . .

I myself was in jeans and athletic shoes -- my uniform -- hauling my boxy little cart full of groceries and other necessities, the pile of stuff secured by my ever-present bungee cord. I remembered shopping trips as a child, with my mother -- unloading the Ford or the VW bug just outside the kitchen door. I marveled at the fact that I have never really driven a car; that I do all my shopping on foot, sometimes hiking for miles.

I was on my way home to a small urban apartment on a quiet street lined with old trees. My building is also old, dating to 1927.  I have lived in this building for more than 12 years with my grown son. My husband lives somewhere else -- has since 1998.

My parents had steady jobs. There was always enough money. They were financialy prudent and went with the program.

In almost every way I can think of, I have broken away and set myself adrift. Not willfully, you understand; I did not will a sudden devastating spinal deformity, a series of major surgeries, an income reduced to my monthly stipend from Social Security. I did not expect or plan on a marriage from hell. I always expected to have two or three kids, instead of a bum back. I still dream of owning my own little abode. I don't know if I ever will. I am not entirely sure it matters terribly much in the vast scheme of things. My apartment is cozy and pleasant, and I can almost afford the rent.

I make art. I am writing a book. I go to aquatics classes at a medical fitness center. I am good friends with my son, who is 30 years old and still getting his bearings. I would love to have a husband I could adore as my parents adored each other -- someone to grow old with contentedly. That wish may be as amorphous and evanescent as the image of owning my own place.

I am a little bit lonely.

I am not entirely sure where I am. I guess I mean that in the existential sense.

I am actually not really sure of anything.

I hope that this will turn out all right.