The Life I Don't Have

I’m thirty-eight years old.

I always thought people knew what they were doing by thirty-eight.

Not everything, obviously. But the important stuff. Who they were. What they wanted. How life worked. The basic rules of the game—of being alive, of surviving this world and maybe whatever comes after it.

Turns out, I knew more at seventeen. At least back then, life was simple.

I was right. Everyone else was wrong. Nobody understood me.

Now nobody understands me, I don’t understand them, and the really annoying part is that I’ve lived long enough to realize we might all be right.

Or wrong.

Or both.

Complete confusion.

I have a husband. A child. A normal life.

And sometimes I feel like Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County.

Except there’s no handsome photographer standing in the rain.

There’s homework.

Practice schedules.

Laundry.

Questions about what we’re having for dinner.

And me, standing in the kitchen trying to remember when exactly my life became a never-ending list of things I need to remember for other people.

I love my family.

That’s what makes this complicated.

Because this isn’t a story about a miserable woman trapped in a terrible marriage, desperately waiting for someone to rescue her.

Nobody needs to rescue me.

I just want something.

Attention.

A touch.

A look that lasts a second longer than it should.

I want that stupid little rush you get when your phone lights up and you hope it’s one particular person.

I miss falling in love.

I miss conversations that last until two in the morning and somehow still aren’t long enough.

I miss excitement.

Freedom.

Wanting someone.

Being wanted.

Maybe I miss something else, too.

God, I wish I understood myself.

And then I met him.

Actually, that sounds far more dramatic than it was.

I didn’t meet him.

There was no rain. No accidental touch. No music playing in the background while our eyes met across a crowded room.

We worked together.

That was it.

At first, he was completely irrelevant to me.

We talked about work. School. Classes. Students.

This one was driving us crazy.

That one hadn’t done his homework again.

Another one had somehow managed to lose the same book for the third time.

Normal conversations between two teachers trying to survive the day.

Then somehow we started talking in the teachers’ lounge.

About the weather.

Coffee.

Chocolate.

Our weight.

Things that mattered.

Things that didn’t.

Everything.

Nothing.

I couldn’t tell you when it changed.

I only know that at some point, I started noticing when he walked into the room.

And, more importantly, what he was wearing when he did.

The fitted shirts were a problem.

The fancy pants were an even bigger problem.

And that black belt around his waist?

Completely unnecessary.

I mean, obviously necessary in the practical sense.

But unnecessary for me personally.

I liked looking at him.

There.

I said it.

I liked him.

And I liked him considerably more when I was ovulating.

Apparently thirty-eight years of life experience, marriage, motherhood, responsibility, and supposed emotional maturity are still no match for hormones.

On those particular days, he could stand there talking about ancient Rome while I nodded thoughtfully and imagined climbing on top of him right there in the teachers’ lounge.

Which was inconvenient.

Because he really did like talking about ancient Rome.

Romans.

Emperors.

Ruins.

Archaeological sites.

Things I had successfully managed not to care about for almost four decades.

Suddenly, I was fascinated.

“Wait,” I’d say. “Why?”

He’d explain.

I’d nod.

“And then what happened?”

Another explanation.

Another question.

I became, quite possibly, the most enthusiastic student of Roman history he had ever encountered.

Not because I gave a shit about the Romans.

I just liked watching him talk.

The way his expression changed when he got interested in something.

The way he leaned against the table.

The way his hands moved when he explained things.

And yes, occasionally, the way the black belt sat around his waist.

History had never been this interesting.

So I asked questions.

Lots of questions.

And follow-up questions.

So many fucking follow-up questions.

And for a while, that was all it was.

Talking.

Looking.

Imagining.

Nothing dangerous.

Nothing I couldn’t control.

At least, that’s what I told myself.