All day, I think about how it’s so strange to compare myself to myself. I think of other versions of me–thinner, more productive, funnier, more lively versions–and I feel this unhappy wave begin to gather force and threaten to crash over me.
Why do I do this? Why not let the past me go? Why compare myself to the me of the twenties or thirties? And why compare myself to the person I was before marriage and children? Or worse, why compare myself to a fictional, future self that doesn’t even exist yet?
I’m right here! This is what you get! It’s glorious right here!
(This is why I have to write so many books. If I don’t, I spend time just thinking existential thoughts about past and future selves.)
I realized that to compare this thing happening right now to any other time, with any other version of me, isn’t really healthy. I gather up all the versions of myself from the past and smile fondly with the memories. But I let the current me be the one who lives.