A strange thing happened to me the other week.
There I was, idly reading the various reports of Amal Alamuddin’s marriage to George Clooney, when I suddenly became aware of an odd feeling. A kind of a weird mix of envy and disappointment.
Well of course, I hear you say. What sane heterosexual woman wouldn’t be jealous of whoever finally married George Clooney? What you experienced is an entirely natural response!
Only her marriage wasn’t the reason I felt that slight pricking of envy. Actually, I think George Clooney is just about the least interesting thing about her.
No, as I delved deeper into my strange state of mind, I realised this was all about the fact that in another life, in another version of me, I am Amal Alamuddin – a kick-ass international lawyer who fights for truth in the International Court of Justice and is asked to sit on UN commissions.
We’re the same age, Amal and I. She has the kind of career I imagined myself as having at certain stages in my life. She has achieved goals and dreams that I myself once had.
And yet, I am not her. I don’t work in London or New York, and didn’t become an international activist. I made different choices. I chose to stay in Australia instead of travelling and working overseas. I chose to have a family young, at 25. I own all of these decisions; at each step of the way I chose this path and this life, and I love it. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with incredulity over how blessed I am. I married my first love. I have three amazing, healthy, smart, creative children. I have a wonderful family and extended family, and more friends than I know what to do with.
And yet, even in all of that, there’s still a small, sad sense of knowing that in making these choices, I’ve cut myself off from other choices I might have made. In choosing one kind of life, you inevitably cut short the other life you might have had.
I used to wish I had a couple of concurrent lives. In one, I’m doing exactly what I’m doing now. In another, I’m working for the UN in Africa and I probably don’t have children. In another, I’m living a subsistence lifestyle on a farm and writing the Great Australian Novel. And in another, I’ve chucked it all in and I’m travelling the world.
I’m not sure how to reconcile all these different parts of who I am in the one life. It seems like such a short space of time. I was talking to a very dear friend today and we both agreed that reaching the ages we are now means, in part, coming to terms with the fact that life doesn’t really work out the way you thought it would. I’m not going to be able to give life to all of those people who lurk inside me; I’m not going to do all the things I thought I would or could, when I was a teenager. I’m OK with that, mostly; it’s just sometimes you see the life that might have been, and wonder about it.
And who knows? Maybe there are a few versions of me out there – living different lives, kind of like Sliding Doors. I’d quite like to think so.