Sometimes it’s hard to believe that all these memories I have are my own. That I lived this much of life. I’ve been a child, and adolescent, an adult. I’ve been single, I’ve dated, and I’m married. I’ve had roommates and lived alone. Jobs have come and gone as my interest ebbed and flowed. I’ve been pregnant. I’ve looked like I was pregnant when I wasn’t. And then I’ve spent months being dedicated to becoming fit again.
And if the general life expectancy statistics are realistic for me and no freak accident occurs, I can expect quite a bit more life still to come. Hell, I’m only 27. Hopefully I still have time, a lot more time (but not too much time) to get into all sorts of other things I haven’t touched yet. Time to raise children and write books and get my Masters degree and become a professor. I’m pretty content with knowing who I am right now, so with all my other time, I can evolve into someone better (hard to imagine, right?)
Sometimes I look at my own memories like an outsider hearing the stories from another person. I am there watching the memories replay, but not there reliving them. It’s as if I’ve been six different people, rather than one person. That’s what I like most about people: we can change. We can evolve and learn and grow from mistakes; we aren’t always destined to be trapped in the same mindset, the same place, or even the same body. And sometimes in the process of evolving, we forget that we were ever someone so different.