At 20, I was jealous of my boyfriend’s old girlfriend. I worried he’d leave me to go back to her.
At 62, it doesn’t phase me if my husband looks at every beautiful woman on the street. And tells me how great she looks. I’m sure he loves me and only me.
At 25, my best friend thought only of herself, but I still longed for her approval.
At 62, my friends are happy when I am. And even when they don’t agree with something I’m doing, they still love and support me.
At 30, I smoked like a chimney and drank martinis at business lunches.
At 62, the thought of a cigarette disgusts me and martinis remind me of stale air and cloudy thoughts.
At 35, I was a mediocre mother.
At 62, I try to put myself in my children’s shoes all the time and nothing matters to me as much as they do.
At 40, I was so needy, I confused good sex with love, thought the world revolved around me and impulsive was my middle name. I had to be thin to like myself.
At 62, I know sex has nothing to do with love, recognize I am a speck in the universe, resist 90 percent of my impulses and am perfectly comfortable with my imperfect body.
At 45, I desperately craved the attention and approbation of a needy boss who loved to emotionally abuse his staff and a needy boyfriend who loved to emotionally abuse me.
At 62, I’ve learned to sniff out needy clients and run for the hills. My husband doesn’t have an abusive bone in his body.
At 50, it all started to come together. Thought about leaving my long-term employer and my long-term boyfriend.
At 55, I had my own business, met a wonderful man, craved friends who loved me for myself and loved my sisters like never before.