In my mind, I looked completely different. In my mind I wore torn jeans, flip-flops and a t-shirt, and my hair was down and whipping about in the wind. I carried a favourite novel and a notebook for writing. In my mind, I looked equally ready for adventure or for a long catch-up with a friend in a cozy café. But my reflection told a different story. My reflection told me that I was a schedule-keeping, bread-earning, lunch-meeting, dress-code-abiding nine-to-fiver. In other words, not at all who I thought I was.
I didn’t like it. However, reflection aside, I’ve always been fairly realistic. A gal has to eat. And pay the rent. And truth be told, as time passes my tastes have evolved. I like expensive clothes and original art and five star hotels and good wine. I like the lifestyle my salary affords me. And I still like well-worn novels from second hand bookstores, hole-in-the-wall restaurants, dirty bars, walking everywhere, cooking from scratch, not paying my taxes (don’t tell) and writing dark love stories. I sometimes feel like I am two people with two lives, both are good, great even, but one feels like home and one feels like it pays for home.
Years later my reflection is recognizable (and my taste in shoes is exquisite), but I’m still straddling the fence between dishevelled, passionate writer and successful communication consultant. The debate continues, but I think I’m starting to lean to one side.
Image credit and corresponding article on an artist living her dream: