I'm watching one of my favourite movies, American Beauty, and wondering how we let our passions quietly slip away. I love my 30s and being an adult. I love eating ice cream for breakfast and not answering the telephone and choosing my surroundings. I love my husband and daughter and my quiet suburban life.
Yet life used to be so visceral, intensely painful and pleasurable, and somehow over the last decade those rich colours have drained away. Nicole and I have talked about the importance of not losing your identity after having kids, but maybe "the fire inside dies and expires at 30" per Eminem, kids or not. I'd still like to feel the bass pulsating in my chest while spinning with the crowd under club lights. Am I the only one?
Writing this blog has got the ink burning through my veins again, and tomorrow I'll dust off my piano keyboard and let my fingers stumble across the keys, until the notes flow under my hands like they did before I let them get away. And I'll dance in my living room with S. and sing and dream. I'll leave the pot and naked weight-lifting to Lester Burnham.