Old

September 18, 2017

I did something kind of crazy. Or maybe definitely crazy. Well, crazy by my standards.

On the way back from a work trip in upstate New York, my coworker/work friend/actual friend, Haley, and I were riding the train home to DC on a Saturday afternoon. We connected through New York City. I had never been to New York City or even seen NYC in real life, which I mentioned to Haley on the train from Poughkeepsie to Penn Station. We had an hour between trains, and so Haley suggested we at least walk outside during our stop.  

When we got off the train in New York City, we walked out of Penn Station and went in the direction toward seeing the Empire State Building. As we were lugging our suitcases down sidewalks full of street performers and food stands, we took a look around and stopped on the corner. With glints in our eyes, we looked at each other, and with sly smiles on our faces, one of us finally asked, “what if we stayed?”

I couldn’t believe I was entertaining the idea. I can’t do this! I’ve got work on Monday, my house is being painted and my roommates need help moving the furniture and getting the house back to normal tomorrow. I’m finishing my degree and my schoolwork can’t be avoided. I mean it wasn’t part of the plan.

But also, like, why not?

Haley combats every argument I bring. It’s only Saturday, so we can come home on an early train Sunday and still have time to help roommates and finish schoolwork, and it isn’t really that obtrusive. Plus, we’re already here and when will a trip to New York City be this cheap again? She asserts all of these things but then tells me the decision is mine.

I am not an adventurous person. I am fairly risk-averse and very pattern-driven. I’ll try new things but only until I find what works best for my existing patterns and then I stick with it until that doesn’t work anymore, and the cycle continues. This is true for my daily routines and my clothing choices and beyond. I don’t remember always being this way, though. I remember being bravely adventurous. Boldly confident. Climbing on a rooftop and playing poker at 2:00am adventurous. I’ve lost that, now. And I’m only twenty-two for goodness’ sake. But in this moment, standing on a dirty sidewalk in New York City, with my suitcase in my hand and the challenging shine in Haley’s eye, I feel that once-familiar spark that comes with making a truly daring and fearless choice.

So we do it. We switch our train tickets and make sure we are on the 6:00am train back to DC the next morning. We find a reasonably priced hotel in a safe area of town near the train station. We drop off our suitcases, charge our phones, let our emergency contacts know where we are, redo our hair and makeup, find something fun to wear, and head out. It is about 5:00pm, I’m wearing plum lipstick and dark mascara, and I’m feeling pretty confident. We’ve found a deal online for cheap tickets to a comedy club to a show that starts in four hours and without a map or any other specific plans until then, we set off.

We walk in the general direction of Times Square (we think). I don’t really care where we’re walking, the adrenaline high of making this decision leaves me feeling free. I feel light as we dodge other tourists, side-step trash, try not to get hit by cars, and keep our eyes open for a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. We’re chatting and laughing and almost skipping off of the exhilaration of our choice with absolutely no pretenses of playing it cool. After a while, we find an Italian place that looks incredibly authentic. We walk in and are called “Bella” by at least three Italian men all before being seated.

Eating dinner with Haley is great, partly because she doesn’t comment that I ate half of the bread, since she ate the other half, and mostly because there is a comfort of being freely, uniquely yourself with a friend over good food. We laugh and people-watch and repeatedly say, “I can’t believe we did this,” as we are in awe of our daring adventure.

We leave and continue on toward Times Square, where I am stunned by the lights but am disturbed at the sheer consumerism of it all. It’s overpowering but simultaneously invigorating. I’m standing in this place, on this day and time and I kind of can’t believe it.

We go to the Broadway Comedy Club and watch stand-up for a couple of hours. There’s a two-drink minimum but Haley and I are already feeling giddy and free, so I can’t tell if the alcohol actually has any effect. We’re seated front and center by the hostess and we’re not two feet from the stage containing the classic brick wall and mic on a stand. It is crowded and perfect and hilarious.

As the show ends, we sit for a moment in this place. We’re not anxious to move on too quickly; we sit and soak in the experience. When the place is mostly empty and they’re getting ready for the eleven o’clock show, we prepare to leave, but we’re not ready for the night to end.

We make friends with the two older women who sat next to us during the show and are also out for a night on the town. We had an extra two tickets from the club’s deal online, so we pass them off to our new friends, and to say thanks, they make it their mission to help us continue to have fun. They’re wearing animal-print pants with layers of jewelry and drank their red wine with ice cubes. On the way out of the door, they snag the show’s host and finagle a recommendation on where to go next. He’s older as well and says he doesn’t know the current places but asks a waiter whose way of sharing venues reminds me of Stefan from Saturday Night Live’s Weekend Update and it’s absolutely perfect.

After several failed attempts, we eventually find a speakeasy serving our favorite cocktails and blaring top 40’s. We dance to Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift, and Justin Bieber. We’re young and free and I’m realizing I can’t remember the last time I felt this close to my age.  

Actually, I do remember. It was climbing three ladders, two sets of stairs, and through a window onto a roof to play cards with my friends at 2:00am just days before my brain surgery.  

I didn’t realize it until now, but I think I began losing my youth and my fun when I started losing my bones. My medical journey started at age 19, the beginning of my sophomore year of college. Since then, I haven’t been young. I’ve had to be responsible and cautious; always aware of how my choices and actions could impact my treatment or exacerbate my symptoms. Having fun became harder to do and required more creativity, so I think I just gave up, happy to live the routine and bland life of the curmudgeonly old person in any stereotypical tv show or movie. I’ve constantly had to be aware and mindful and have been completely removed from my peer group.

Prolonged illness is an unscrupulous thief, taking my time and energy, pilfering my youth.

And I feel old.

I feel older than I have the right to feel, and I frequently forget how young I really am. I’m not even a quarter of a century-old! I can’t rent a car! But my health is worse than most 80-year-olds I know, and I think it’s aged my heart. I got sick at 19; that’s too young to know what to do and too old for my parents to be able to do it for me. I was responsible for making life and death decisions. I had to do research and assess my body and decide on surgeries and spinal taps and tests and lifestyle choices and accommodations and life alterations. The weight of these decisions rests very heavily on my very delicate, sloping shoulders. Every choice could impact my chances of survival or quality of life and health therein. My parents and friends and mentors came along to help lighten the load, but at the end of the day, it was always my choice, my action, my decision. This responsibility aged me quickly. I wasn’t treated like I was young. Like I am young. I feel old and weathered, like driftwood that’s been slowly but powerfully worn down by a rushing, constant river of pain. And I “grew up” all wrong. Making these decisions, shouldering this load does not exempt me from having fun or choosing to enjoy a moment or an opportunity or a gift, no I should instead grasp these moments quickly and more tightly as they don’t come along too often. But it felt reckless. Having fun felt like a luxury with a cost too high to justify.

But on this night, in New York City, in a pretty dress and a statement necklace, laughing with Haley, dancing terribly for hours, I feel it. I feel twenty-two. I feel indescribably alive. I feel, just for a moment, the weight of my reality lift off of my mind and my heart as I forget myself altogether. I know that when I sink back into the mire of prolonged illness on Monday I won’t feel guilty for enjoying this time; I was safe and responsible. No, I’ll feel invigorated by the presence of a part of life I had lost.

We get back to the hotel with only enough time for about two hours of sleep. In hindsight, the 6:00am train was unnecessarily early. We get to the station with barely enough time to catch our train and we’re dressed in the same pajamas we put on just a few short hours ago. Our hair is a mess and I’m laughing at the half-smeared mascara on Haley’s face and she’s laughing at the pillow crease lines on mine. Our eyes are tired but our smiles are content.

We had fun. And I feel young.

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