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Ai alternative: poti sa te obisnuiesti cu gandul ca nu esti perfecta (cine este, la o adica?) sau sa incepi frumos sa ocolesti oglinda, care iti tot aminteste nerusinata ca nu te-ai obisnuit cu realitatea cruda.
Incepi sa poti aminti in discurs fara jena sau fara vreun tremurat de barba numele organelor sexuale masculine si chiar sa ti le asumi din cand in cand, fara sa te mai amuze deloc ridicolul situatiei.
Iti faci fara sa vrei un sumar al esecurilor si succeselor inregistrate si incerci de acum inainte sa nu le lasi, pe niciunele, sa iti dirijeze viata.
Constati cu consternare si un zambet amar cat de mult semeni cu mama, aia pe care o huleai la varsta nebuna a adolescentei.
Devii mama cuiva, fie ca e copilul tau, carne din carnea ta, sau o persoana asupra careia versi toata mamicia din tine, ca trebuie sa o versi undeva, altfel te sufoca.
Mai simti din cand in cand cate un clocot in sange si, daca viata te lasa, te lasi purtata de val in niste nebunii despre care crezi ca o sa iti redea tineretea pe care o crezi pierduta.
Asta e strada pe care ea, intr-o noapte de septembrie, ca asta, a decis sa isi agate grijile cu o funie, de grinda. Tocmai implinise 30 de ani.
***
After 30 years, maturity comes knocking at your door and, without asking whether you are ready or not, settles into your life as if it were at home.
You have alternatives: you can get used to the thought that you're not perfect (who is, after all?) or you can start nicely avoiding the mirror, which keeps shamelessly reminding you that you're not used to the harsh reality.
You begin to be able to recall in speech without embarrassment or any shaking of the beard the names of the male sex organs and even assume them from time to time, no longer at all amused by the ridiculousness of the situation.
You unwittingly make a summary of your failures and successes and try from now on not to let them, any of them, run your life.
You find with dismay and a bitter smile how much you resemble your mother, the one you used to boo at the crazy age of adolescence.
You become someone's mother, whether it's your child, flesh of your flesh, or a person upon whom you pour all the motherhood in you, that you have to pour it somewhere, otherwise it suffocates you.
You feel a little boil in your blood from time to time and, if life lets you, you get carried away in some crazy thing you think will restore the youth you thought you lost.
This is the street she, on a September night like this one, decided to hang her worries on a rope, from the rafter. She had just turned 30.
