I am not those other girls.
You know. The ones that believe every story and think the sun rises and sets on your every word. The ones that don’t quite match you in gray matter. The ones that make your brow furrow and your eyes trail off into the distance as you realize they cannot keep up.
I remember thinking this at age 14. Age 16. Age 24. And yes, revisiting now in my forties.
I am not someone you keep in a small fishbowl while you brave the ocean, coming to peer through the glass now and then—throwing me bits of food as you like.
I can brave the waves as well as you can. Hold my own in conversation in the wee hours over port, or scotch, or whatever breathes fire down your throat.
I laugh with more abandon, cry with more real tears and care with a depth you have not yet approached.
You did so much right amid the wrong.
But the fatal error was thinking I was like those other girls.
I’ll see you in the ocean, a tidal wave away. And I’ll smile. Knowing I left to surf the perfect wave.