When I was twelve, I thought I had things all figured out. I decided that I'd graduate high school at eighteen, college at twenty-two, marry at twenty-three, have my first baby at twenty-five, and be a published novelist by thirty.
So...stuff happens. In the first ten years after that I nailed the first two goals, but at twenty decided I didn't want kids, so having a kid by twenty-five did not happen; I wish I'd come around to the idea of kids again by that age, though. Then at twenty-three the on-again off-again relationship thing since my mid-teens took a permanent turn for off and the less said about why the better (but I'm not the one who changed)... And I was published and wrote a novel long before thirty, but I'm a published poet, and the only novel I completed so far isn't going to see the light of day. Ever. Who knew that published and novelist would be a description of two things, not one?
I'd like to say that I've grown more realistic with my goals, but what fun is that? I'm not as cynical as some people think, you know. Here's proof: ideally I'd like to meet the man of my dreams before the end of this year, get married in a couple of years, have any kids I'm going to between thirty-five and forty, finally publish a damn novel, and own a house. And get a puppy.
I hope I'm not thinking at 42 how naive I still was back in '09.
"I don't want what I did/I had a change of taste/But maybe someday..." - The Cure, Maybe Someday