I have a strange wish for the past few days.
I wish that my mum had taken out about ten minutes from her busy schedule, when I was young, and told me about disappointment.
See, the thing is that we know it will come. When we in our glorious youth, think of coming age, we recognise it by this one characteristic.
We know old people are old because they stink of disappointment.
Which is the same reason that some people are eternally young. They have hope, of one kind or the other, and they use it like a daily botox injection.
So, to come back to the fore-warned part of the deal, I wish my mum had told me that being pretty and being smart and being able to dress well (on a shoe-string budget too) was not the be all and end all of the world.
I wish she had sat me down, when I was ten or eleven and told me about her life. How she had to be married at 23, and how she gave up a promising government job in a bank, and how she got used to a new family which possibly disliked her. It would have given me an inkling of the looming future.
I am not saying I have the same hurdles as her. Not even close.
But there are disasters, of the same scale. And I wish she had told me to watch out for them.
I wish I had learnt of life’s cruelty. Just so I could be resigned to it.
It is hard to deal with surprises.