40
Dear I.,
I am feeling a little sad tonight.
Last Saturday, K. and I went to see a sold-out live show. The band was celebrating the 10th anniversary of the release of a beloved album. The whole band had reunited for the first time since the pandemic started, and This City was the last stop on that tour. They talked about who was having babies, how things have changed.
Last night and this afternoon, I went to see two terrific plays. One was a stage adaptation of a Russian black comedy novel by a scrappy troupe, whose infectious energy and imagination and resourceful ambitions more than make up the shoestring budget and bare bones production. The other was a City Shakespeare Company-commissioned play by a playwright and starring three actresses whom I have watched grow over the course of my time living in This City. It was an excellent production, a showcase of their talents at the peak of their powers.
After these experiences, I am feeling strangely deflated, and full of self-pity. I kept thinking, "I am forty now, and what do I have to show for it?"
Over the last twenty years, the playwright and the three actresses have gotten better and better at their craft, training their passion toward their dream. The scrappy troupe is in its Nth season, growing more determined and skilled with every passing year. Friends and acquaintances, my brothers and cousins, everyone around me, it seems, have had kids, gotten degrees, built careers, bought houses, living abroad, trying to move toward a dream, a goal. Getting better, at something.
I haven't had kids, just two miscarriages. I've taken classes at a community college, without any desire for a Master's, Ph. D. I've stayed put in This City for a decade and a half now, always a renter. I've gotten good at working as a barista, for the fun of it, and as an office admin, for the sake of my bosses, for whom I care a whole lot.
I would like to be able to point at something and say, "That's what I want!" and start working towards it. Get really good at something in order to realize a dream. I know how to work hard! I know I can do it! I just don't know what it is.
The only thing I seem to be really good at is taking care of myself. I'm good at collecting experiences and learning how to read stories and watch movies and plays and how to think about what I've seen and heard and experienced. I'm good at creating and building a life that feels good and true and right to me, in this moment. I'm good at thinking up ideas that make the world make more sense to me, or make the world more beautiful to me, without needing to share those thoughts or ideas.
I guess I wish that there was something tangible that I could share. I wish that there was some way for me to be able to "show" people what I've been doing with my forty years of life. Or maybe just to be able to show that I have been working, just as hard as everyone else, at something these forty years. Because it seems to me like there is nothing for anyone to see when they look at me. There's just... my life, with me in it. I feel good about my life, and me. I'm just not sure if or how to share that, how to share my life, or me. Would anyone understand? Would anyone want me to share this with them?
Do you know what I mean? Does this make sense?
(I miss talking to you. I recognize now, more and more, that I used to be less than the friend that you deserved to have. I wish I could have been a better friend then, and I understand if this distance between us now is intentional. I still do miss your friendship.)
m.
I am feeling a little sad tonight.
Last Saturday, K. and I went to see a sold-out live show. The band was celebrating the 10th anniversary of the release of a beloved album. The whole band had reunited for the first time since the pandemic started, and This City was the last stop on that tour. They talked about who was having babies, how things have changed.
Last night and this afternoon, I went to see two terrific plays. One was a stage adaptation of a Russian black comedy novel by a scrappy troupe, whose infectious energy and imagination and resourceful ambitions more than make up the shoestring budget and bare bones production. The other was a City Shakespeare Company-commissioned play by a playwright and starring three actresses whom I have watched grow over the course of my time living in This City. It was an excellent production, a showcase of their talents at the peak of their powers.
After these experiences, I am feeling strangely deflated, and full of self-pity. I kept thinking, "I am forty now, and what do I have to show for it?"
Over the last twenty years, the playwright and the three actresses have gotten better and better at their craft, training their passion toward their dream. The scrappy troupe is in its Nth season, growing more determined and skilled with every passing year. Friends and acquaintances, my brothers and cousins, everyone around me, it seems, have had kids, gotten degrees, built careers, bought houses, living abroad, trying to move toward a dream, a goal. Getting better, at something.
I haven't had kids, just two miscarriages. I've taken classes at a community college, without any desire for a Master's, Ph. D. I've stayed put in This City for a decade and a half now, always a renter. I've gotten good at working as a barista, for the fun of it, and as an office admin, for the sake of my bosses, for whom I care a whole lot.
I would like to be able to point at something and say, "That's what I want!" and start working towards it. Get really good at something in order to realize a dream. I know how to work hard! I know I can do it! I just don't know what it is.
The only thing I seem to be really good at is taking care of myself. I'm good at collecting experiences and learning how to read stories and watch movies and plays and how to think about what I've seen and heard and experienced. I'm good at creating and building a life that feels good and true and right to me, in this moment. I'm good at thinking up ideas that make the world make more sense to me, or make the world more beautiful to me, without needing to share those thoughts or ideas.
I guess I wish that there was something tangible that I could share. I wish that there was some way for me to be able to "show" people what I've been doing with my forty years of life. Or maybe just to be able to show that I have been working, just as hard as everyone else, at something these forty years. Because it seems to me like there is nothing for anyone to see when they look at me. There's just... my life, with me in it. I feel good about my life, and me. I'm just not sure if or how to share that, how to share my life, or me. Would anyone understand? Would anyone want me to share this with them?
Do you know what I mean? Does this make sense?
(I miss talking to you. I recognize now, more and more, that I used to be less than the friend that you deserved to have. I wish I could have been a better friend then, and I understand if this distance between us now is intentional. I still do miss your friendship.)
m.