o my lost youth

It is 9:17pm on a Friday night, and I'm waiting for a text to buzz on my phone. An old girlfriend, A., is in town. Maybe drinks tonight. Except I turn into a pumpkin at 10.

Still, I'm tempted to go. Less to see her, more to see myself, reflected. She and I were friends so long ago (well, just five years), it seems like I was someone else. I was 20 pounds lighter in soul and body. If I see her tonight, how will I appear, to her or to myself? How will I behave? Will I play a role? Or tell the truth?

I lived in New York City as a kid. A. inducted me back into that town as an adult. We traveled together, partied together, and went into business together. I had just freed myself from an oppressive and potentially dangerous marriage, run off to the other side of the world, and taken a lover. Returning, I never went home to New England. For six months I slept on the couches of the crunchy and holistic (yet quietly well-heeled) yoga and nutrition community of NYC, eventually shacking up with another friend in Brooklyn. Still, I rarely spent three nights in a row in the same place. My freedom was delicious. I was on the move. I was game. I was yar. I was ready for whatever A. could throw at me.

The business ran out of her studio apartment. The vibe was creative, passionate. I wrote all the time. We talked about everything. We plotted a revolution in "how things were done." The business felt like me, and I grooved on the vibe of a shared mission. But the business was hers. Her baby. Her money. A. was ambitious, chasing every lead--celebrity chefs, authors, jewelry designers, doctors, models, film stars, anyone, anyone, anyone who could promote her business. She dreamed of downtown office space and celebrity clientele. But she couldn't write a business plan or organize her checkbook. Isn't that so often the way? But we did have fun, and that's what I needed, now that the chains were off my ankles.

She set me up on dates. She let me sleep with my boyfriends at her apartment. Her man got me high and roasted whole chickens for us. We hung around the bars and restaurants of Hell's Kitchen, where we flirted with chefs who brought us free foie gras. I had my chakras cleared by Tibetan singing bowls. I stayed up late at all-night, raw-food, dance halls. A. introduced me to those authors and models and a professional dominatrix or two. She brought a date to my divorce hearing. We cooked every day and hosted packed parties out of her one-room home. I consumed many, many, many glasses of chardonnay.

And then it wound down, slowly. I got tired, I think, and overstimulated. And I ran out of money and patience with the business. I still remember the last party I attended. I left the club with another friend, who was also getting tired. Stepping out onto the curb, she looked at me and said, "Hell is other people." That was the end of it for both of us. We each left New York not long after.

I had no illusions that my friendship with A. would survive my exiting the business. She is one of those people who, unless you are living with her, working with her, or sleeping with her, you just won't ever see her. But it's like that for a lot of city people.

After I lost the baby, she emailed me a couple of times and then threw some easy work my way when I needed money. She was understanding when I couldn't manage the small tasks she gave me and had to quit. The intensity of our friendship was over a while before, so there was no way she could let me down when crisis came. It's been so much harder with the people who are here, in my life, every week, who stare at me and my life so blankly.

Tonight I could get dressed--dark jeans, high heeled boots, my sweater with the faux fur collar--and go find her at the bar. She won't be there alone, she never travels alone. In tow she's likely to have her boyfriend, or her brother, or her admin assistant, or her sorority sisters, or the latest author/designer/chef she is courting. Am I game? Am I yar? Can I take whatever she throws at me? Do I feel like a girl who can party?

I think we all know the answer to that question.

This post I'm writing--it could be written by almost anyone. About good times past and friends whose paths have diverged. About the anxiety of a reunion and the mellowing that comes with age. Yet I feel that even those simple reflections, which we are all entitled to as we age, have been taken from me. Because I am living through trauma. I am living through loss. How I feel, how I look, these don't feel like a choice. They are the best I can sort of manage right now.

Shame and pride are clouding my thinking tonight. I'd like to stand in front of A., in front of myself from five years ago, and hug her and say, "I am proud of my choices. See here, my wonderful husband. See here, my beautiful stepdaughter. See here, I am still creative, still ambitious, still fun, even though my life looks so different from yours." So, so, so true. But I know it won't show on my face, because something else is etched there now.

And when I look at myself, I do feel shame. Because I know better. I know how to eat well, how to care for my body, how to nourish my spirit, to work hard, to play hard, to dress with care, to feel beautiful, to chase my dreams. Because in our business, that's what we helped people do. Holistic health counseling. That's what I used to do for a living, folks. How do I rejoin her scene when everything about me says, um, none of that really helps when the real shit goes down. Or, yeah, I just wasn't strong enough to keep it together, sorry.

But it's not A.'s judgment I have to worry about. It's my own. Some things have been lost. It's up to me to decide, do I get them back, or let them go?

Home writing, with my kid in bed and my husband about to come in and ask me if I want to watch the Red Sox game, I am not unhappy. This has been a good week for me. There's sunshine, and the magnolia tree is in bloom. I've been doing yoga, staying hydrated, sleeping okay. I am out of grief's grip for the moment. But that doesn't mean I feel ready to face the world, to face my past. I am not ready for my close-up.

It's 9:47pm, and my phone has buzzed. She just wrapped up a speaking engagement. Her ride is taking her to a bar across town. Stay tuned, she'll text me the name of the place. I decline, with love. Thirty minutes later I'm on the couch, in my husband's arms, with Jerry Remy's voice lulling me to sleep over the crack of the Red Sox's bats.