the middest of our mid-20s
It's their guitarist's last show as part of the band.
I stand stage left, right where ruby beams mingle with shadowy corners of the venue. The performers look youthful -- early college students, most likely.
Personalities of the showgoers emerge through kicks and flails to electric riffs and crashing sticks. Hair tossing and swinging arms show that the earliest, rowdiest attendees lack the blue wristbands that identify those allowed to imbibe. A loose ring forms in the far back, closest to the bar, of people standing and watching with the occasional nod along. That's where the bearded and the banded hold their beers, somehow making conversation amid the music.
In my case, it's between sets that I sit and chat with my former roommate.
Elbow to cocktail table; cheek to palm. My mask is tucked into my purse, for I'd taken it off to welcome intimacy.
"Sometimes I forget that we spent the heart of our college years in lockdown -- and even when we did go back in person, we were masked and distant."
I ponder it often. How many people did I miss out on befriending because I was hesitant to go to public events, all too eager to get home and unmask in the safety of our shared bedroom? What vital socialization was curtailed by public health circumstances and altogether stymied by the way technology became the primary hub for all of my interaction?
In what ways am I still healing from and growing out of those learned behaviors?
All of them, I think.
It's a trap, that feeling of how I "should" be somewhere further along than I am. Taking stock of everything I've accomplished and all the possibility afforded me by my hard work should be a comfort, but the sense that I've been missing something -- or crueler yet, not doing enough -- haunts me perpetually. While therapy and diligence in daily habits keep it from consuming me, the feeling undercuts each moment. It nags at me: Don't you think you should have more of your life together by now? Or at the very least, have made some concrete choices about what you want it to be?
"I know!" She leans in. "Now we're in the middest of our mid-20s and it's like, wait, what? So we're just working now? Why was I in such a rush to get here? My 20s should be about exploring what's out in the world! I have my whole life to work!"
Coming from a close contemporary working a 9-5, these words are a comfort. My post-undergrad plan was to rest and make art, but a part-time-turned-all-consuming education position appeared in my lap and it only made sense to accept. With that opportunity now outgrown, I'm in roughly the same position I was in two years ago -- full of potential plans forward, but lacking in the vitality necessary to execute them.
Surely, though, I'm not already jaded by my life prospects. Surely, this is a slump that I'll shake off in a few days of focusing on creative expression. Yes -- I just need to write.
But writing, too, has become a struggle.
"Especially with ADHD, it was easier to fixate on media as a student," my friend reflects. Let's call her Lorraine. "There was more room to immerse yourself in liking something. A lull in assignments? Play your game, watch your show. Feel creatively inspired by it. Test coming up? That's when you're on it."
"Yeah. And now it's like, I'm denying myself things that I enjoy because I feel like I should be 'productive' or because I'm conscious of global suffering and feel guilty being happy. Or because I have work, I'm all, nooo, you can't get into this thing yet. You don't have the emotional capacity to fully steeeeep yourself in the art of it. Or, if you do, then you'll fall behind in work and it'll be a nightmare trying to get your brain back in line."
"Ugh, yes. Business as usual..."
Atrocities abroad have been a challenge to internalize and take action around. Coupled with stagnant grief for precious time and love lost to the pandemic, writing has been helping me come up with a coherent narrative of my life. I'm creating something to look back on in a few years' time in a gesture of, 'hey, remember that? Remember trying your best? Remember all the ways you grew the fuck up after making all of those objectively short-sighted decisions? Good job. Keep moving forward.'
Neither of us knew the band prior to the show. Still, I shook her shoulder, giddy with the opening guitar chords.
"Dude, it's your song!"
I meant that it was approaching 9:30 -- our agreed upon departure time -- so it was her last chance to get physical in the pit, as she expressed wanting to do before the night ended. She took it in a much funnier direction.
"It's my song! I got married to this song!"
I cackle. The word is apt for my attire -- a black peasant top with a floor-length black skirt. "They played this song while you had your first born!"
Leaving at 9:30 turned into two more songs, and then one more song, and then another. I didn't get to see the band I came for, but the sets were long and I didn't want to pressure her into staying out too late.
I'm no stranger to serendipity -- luck always seems to be on my side when it comes to chance encounters and sweet exchanges. As we exited the venue, I met the person who put the gigs on my radar via socials; she hugged me, I wished her partner (one of the drummers in a band) a happy birthday, I gave her stickers and candy from my purse, and we proceeded to walk the streets of my college town.
Now, days out from that evening, I wish I stayed the entire show. I wish I invited that person to sit with us when he asked if he could use the chair -- especially now that I realize he was probably requesting to join our table. I wish I were louder and bolder in complimenting that other person's hair; I wish I didn't bring that specific bag and that I wore a different hat so I could dance without so much holding me down.
It's inspiration to make bags with mobility and headpieces with security, if nothing else.