Yesterday as I was driving through the neighbourhood, I noticed a group of teenagers hanging out on the front lawn of someone's home. By the time I'd driven by, a girl in bermuda shorts had successfully leaped onto a boys back, and the two of them laughed as they stumbled across the yard and tried to keep their balance.
It was the first time in my life that I'd been truly envious of youth. I have been both wistful and resigned, but I don't recall feeling envious before. If I had, I might have thrown on a great pair of jeans, some killer heels, and gone dancing, but that was five years ago.
Yesterday, I drove on to Wal-mart to pick up the spiky bedding plants I needed. This morning as I was showering, I remembered what it felt like to be seventeen - the flawless skin, the big bright eyes, breasts that look awesome with or without a bra.
It's not that I want to relive my youth. In fact, you couldn't make me, if that meant I'd have to make all the same mistakes. However, there would be a moment where I wouldn't think of it that way. There'd be a moment where I considered how I am at forty-four, with aching muscles and frozen joints and I'd remember all those summers I worked at the lake. Back then, my body was so much stronger and pain didn't play into the day at all.
I wouldn't go back, but today I wish someone had taken video of me back then, just so that my kids could see what I was like.
I was something else.