I watch the woman in the movie with lofty spiky heels, immaculate suite and hair, in a high-powered open plan office. That used to be me.
I see the lady at the cafe, tuck her handsomely shaped shoes under the table, getting ready to organise, order, instruct, delay. That used to be me.
I see a flash back picture on Facebook of a well-presented corporate women having her nails done for fun with other friends. That was me four years ago.
Other memories are theoretical. Memories of the time constraints and diary shackles, the unmarked male-delineated contour to be followed, the games to be played to secure a good bonus, smiling and agreeing with demanding or misfit bosses, keeping all the stakeholders in check and each disk spinning at the right speed. I know this was the case, but I don’t recall it with emotion now.
I feel the missing of the look and construct of my day, which meant I engaged with big world stuff – should a bank in Uganda expand to the north to service the un-banked? – and I was significant. But were all those big world problems any bigger thank my small world problems? My kids, my husband, my struggle with the stepson, the threat of a bipolar episode second half of the year, the economic blow out which is SA; where to educate our kids, and g-d, where to get the money. Back to my well-healed corporate powerhouse, which was built over 22 years of slog and moulding myself.
Can I keep juggling; or re-reconsider my next chapter. Either direction, am I selling myself short?
