I met an old friend for happy hour one Friday in early Santa Barbara summer. I hadn’t seen him in 10 years approximately, since college. A takeaway we referenced multiple times during our meet up, like you would the weather or where to park downtown.
A decade ago we had different personas. He played in an American folk band called Whiskey Piss and lived wonderfully fringe in a mountain hideaway with apple trees and a Japanese hot tub. I wore pleather moon boots, smoked Marbolro Ultra Lights, and refused to ride a bike. Now he’s going to be a lawyer and I am am Manager of software things.
I felt pleasantly heavy with anticipation. I think all the elements were there for one of those incandescent reconnects. The meet up itself was more shimmer on the water. Mild cheddar. A flat, peaceful afternoon. Not a second of unpleasantness, but no purple dusk magic carpet ride into the past.
What gives, I thought to myself as I shuffled home.
I tried to remember myself in college. We met freshman year, there were three of us who became friends. We grew apart over the years but stayed in each other’s orbit, almost fiercely, even as our interests diverged. While I was at my first rave with a pack of Brazilians, my friends were eating acid and walking around the Lagoon or spending all night in the bowels of the library listening to tapes of banjo music.
I remember being able to tell each other the truth, even if it was uncomfortable. There was a lot of talk about feelings but it didn’t feel excessive, maybe because we had endless reserves of hormones pumping through our veins. It just felt very accessible. Deep talks and heart to hearts were an easy apex on a big night out, all hyped up after hours of ferreting away cheap vodka at a house party.
…
During happy hour I think we talked about how the 90s are back. It was an observation I leaned into. I remember watching the young girls pour into the brewery in baggy jeans and flowery crop tops, feeling a little sorry for myself that I aged out of the current trend.
Back then, I doubt I would have even hesitated to start in on intimate details of my personal life. I was both wildly dramatic but also brave, in a rubbery way. You have emotional yield, like a toddler. I think I got dumped one night and all I needed to do read David Sedaris for 12 hours the next day and I was fine. I used to get drunk and rip plants out of the landscaped ground and give them to my friends. I was barely embarrassed.
Now I catch myself holding the visceral details back, sharing the high level overview which sounds like a commercial. I caution my partner against telling people too much; he has an incredible coming of age story, but sometimes I think it’s too distracting and personal. Then I can’t believe the hypocritical pop psych garbage that comes flowing out of my mouth because I have always championed openness to the point of telling my poor mother, who’s shown zero interest, how important micro-dosing is for a social climate of healing.
Now we are brave in different ways. We can work long days, do a sweat, raise the baby and cook dinner. Sunset friendships and make meaningful attempts to create new ones. Grocery shop, get gas, pay bills, clean your shower, and do it all over again. The gall to take on sheer mind numbing sameness with a modicum of grace, and even enjoyment?
Is this the new phase of brave less self discovery, more self improvement? Sometimes I see memes that characterize self care as radical. If time is our most precious resource, is this the moment to trade finding yourself for aromatherapy naps?
I don’t know.
A few months ago I visited my friend in New York City. She and her fiance just got this spacial apartment on the Upper West Side. I have been to New York only twice, but I know it’s the best city in the world.
We went out dancing at the Wild Hearts Disco on Halloween night, I wore pink chiffon. We met models and mortals and stayed out until 4 am having absolute fun. I think I did find myself a little in that warehouse in Brooklyn, bobbing up and down in a smoky room and watching a PG strip tease on the tiny stage. I definitely was able to be cracked open, sharing feelings and fears that had stacked with my friends.
So maybe it’s still a balance. Take some naps, but every now and then go to a warehouse afterparty.
Son in the City 