Selfish Years

A friend shared with me, a few days ago, how his life had started to feel stale.

Me being me, of course, pointed out all of the things he should feel grateful for – not in a bid to invalidate his feelings of course, but simply because sometimes others see you better than you.

And he said, “You know, yes I’m working but then what? The money is good but I feel like I’m not using up to a third of my brain.”

For context, he’s in the civil service. He’s one of those people that actually enjoy exerting themselves, unlike my lovely self that was created solely for enjoyment.

He continued, “Keep working and then in a few years the next expected thing would be marriage, and after that, kids. All the things I wouldn’t be able to do and now can’t do because I have to take care and think of them. Just like that until I get old and die, if I live that long.”

He’s a man. No matter how helpful a man is in a family, the bigger burden always falls on the woman. His life is affected of course, but never as much.

Childbirth that could actually kill her, recovery from that to a body that is forever changed, child rearing – the bulk of it still falling on her because she’s a mother, a life put on hold, dreams that can never be chased again.

I’ve been thinking about that conversation a lot. The more I think about it, the more dread I feel. I am told that I am selfish for feeling this way.

That’s OK. These are my selfish years, the years I can take risks because I don’t have to think of a husband and children. I can just up and go.