March 28, 2013 “This spring, you’d swear it actually gets dark earlier.At the elegant new restaurants downtownyour married friends lock glances over the walnut torte:it’s ten o’clock. They have important jobsand go to bed before midnight. Only youwalking alone up the dazzling avenuestill feel a girl’s excitement, for the thousandth timeyou enter your life as though for the first time,as an immigrant enters a huge, mysterious capital:Paris, New York. So many wide plazas, so many marble addresses!Home, you write feverishlyin all five notebooks at once, then faint into beddazed wit ambition and too many cigarettes.Well what’s wrong with that? Nothing, exceptreally you don’t believe wrinkles mean characterand know it’s an ominous notethat the Indian skirts flapping on the sidewalk rackslast summer looked so gay you wanted them allbut now are marked clearer than price tags: not for you.Oh, what were you doing, why weren’t you paying attentionthat piercingly blue day, not a cloud in the sky,when suddenly "choices”ceased to mean “infinite possibilities”and became instead “deciding what to do "without”?No wonder you’re happiest nowriding on trains from one lover to the next.In those black, night mirrored windowsa wild white face, operatic still enthralls you:a romantic heroine,suspended between lives, suspended between destinations.“ — “Turning Thirty” by Katha Pollitt, from Antartic Traveller.