I'm Thirty-Three: Is This Real?

My uniform of panty hose is burning in the trashcan, delicious! A cadre of lipsticks, each carefully chosen for the perfect shade and formula lie broken in a heap. The household valuables coveted in my big city are dumped in garage-sale fashion. My highly paid executive desk job is over, gone, forgotten. I’m retiring, moving-on, signing up for adventure. I’m thirty-three, is this real?

I wear bikinis all day long; a different color for each day of the week. My skin is dark-brown, colored by the sun. Make-up is no longer necessary; I appear healthy, radiant. Those stubborn, extra five pounds are gone as I lift two dozen tanks a day. Best diet I’ve ever been on. Muscles gleam beneath sweat as I prepare the dive boat. I am strong, but in a different way than before. I’m thirty-three, is this real?

Guests come and go, always smiling. The oppression of their daily grind is back-of-mind, a distant memory. No ideas to debate, no meetings to attend, no politics to navigate. This is the islands, mon! Life is good. Everyone is happy. Things can wait. There is always tomorrow. The guests go home, I stay. I’m thirty-three, is this real?

I commute seventeen minutes each day by boat. I drive it myself, no longer scared of crashing. The air is fresh and clean. I fill my lungs with it. My friends wave as I approach the dock, locals who have come to accept me. I wrap the dock cleats with my line, securing the small six-pack vessel. The island cat winds through my legs as I approach our al-fresco dive counter. I feed him and he purrs appreciatively as I review the dive plans for the day. I’m thirty-three, is this real?

My future-husband briefs the dive. He is my co-worker and fellow dive master. I gear up and get in the water, he follows. Today we have only two divers. We both decide to dive so I tie the boat’s safety line to a U-bolt for security. There are loggerhead turtles everywhere today. I love them. A school of goat fish disperse as we glide through. Moray eels peek blindly from their coral dens. A sting-ray disappears in a cloud of sand as we pass. This is where I work. This is where I live. I smile behind my reg. I’m thirty-three, this is so real!