I spent some time tonight searching through old books, trying to track down a reference Levi and I discussed last week. I didn’t find the reference, but I did find a strange record of myself ten years ago. Ten years ago, if the carefully underlined passages in my books are to be believed, I was really, really lonely.
From Anita Brookner’s Providence:
“She saw her life, all physical geography removed, as an inexorable progress toward further loneliness.”
From Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook:
“Alone, frightened to be alone, without resources, running from an exciting city because I haven’t the moral energy to ring up any one of a dozen people who would be pleased if I did – or at least might turn out to be pleased.”
I could go on. But I won’t, because it’s depressing.
This isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned my love of being in my thirties (or, more precisely, being out of my twenties), and it probably won’t be the last. Every once in a while I need to reread those passages, or open up those mortifying journals (Feb. ’98: “I am really so happy with my life…but I am unbearably depressed…”), and then I can take a deep breath, kiss my husband, and go back to being really, wonderfully OK.