I have this weird picture in my head of how life is supposed to be. I see myself in a high rise apartment, sipping red wine and wearing four inch heels. My job is glamorous, maybe a columnist for some upscale news source and my friends host swanky parties in opulent flats or brownstones or hotel suites. My husband is powerful and handsome and sexy. My life is full and meaningful.
But then I realize I’m from the back roads of Oregon, born under Montana skies and raised next to crystal river rapids. My house isn’t fancy and I hate wine (unless it’s really expensive merlot). My friends are teachers and social workers and mothers.
I think the danger of imagining is that we often forget the reality of ourselves. I know that you picture me like one of those gift-wrapped, picture frame couples. And I see you as one too. But my life is not that high rise or that stay-at-home wife. It’s not what I dreamed of and it’s not what you picture. So why don’t we tell each other the aching truths of our lives? I pretend, you pretend, and we both wish the other would do something.