Time Machine
I want to be old. Old and wrinkly and wearing off colored, slouching socks, shirts that are either way too big or slightly too small and carry a smile on me like I know a secret. I want to walk around like a chapter book for children and flirt with everyone every chance I get. I want to wear lipstick that bleeds over my lips and eye shadow that gets caught in the creases of my eyes in colors only crazy people might wear. I want to make up stories, exaggerate everything and tell lies just to get caught in them. I want to argue with people just because and I want to complain about everything but my aches and pains. I want to remember the times I cared about everything too much and about no one enough. I want to think back on the times I should have taken a chance. I want to think about lost love, the one that got away and the one I wish let go. I want to think about time spent in the wrong places. And then I want to warn the young kids not to do what I did and then roll my eyes at them when I know they didn't listen. I want to dance one beat behind because my body can't do what my mind says and I want to throw my hands up in the air and wiggle my bum knowing it and not caring one bit. I want to judge someone just because I have the experience to know better. I want to wish them well and mean it. I want to hug people when I first meet them because I won't be sure if I'll see them again. I want to ask as many questions as I can so I can learn everything about every person every time we meet. And I want to be OK with what I've become because being old will be just like it is now.