Passing Through

I woke up this morning and realised I am still seven. My daughter held all of her eight years in her left hand and rattled off names of Egyptian gods and their Grecian counterparts, with some Indian versions thrown in for effect. A collector of facts, book worm and nerd, on her way to being either an Egyptologist or a Zoologist (because Amma, pets are fun but vets are boring).  She has figured out in her little head, a space for herself in this world where I don't quite fit that way. And then they talk of genes.  My friends know they are nearing forty. Know that they need to save a third of what they earn to have the same life as they have now when they retire. Colleagues nearly half my age talk to me of career planning and work-life balance. People seem to know why to marry, when and whom to go out with. Where to make love and when not to talk, stalk, pine, or be seen craving. When I was twenty, I was gently shaken when a Turkish Friend of mine complained about the Color of curtains in our dorm and went out to get them changed with drapes from IKEA. Weren't they just supposed to be what they are? Who would have thought that one can have opinions on dinner plates and handbags? Turns out there was a whole load of stuff that goes in this world which doesn't quite enter my neural networks. Am I still just passing through?