I Am Crushed by Nostalgia

Seeing an old friend makes me wonder: where did my life go?

Me on stage with the homie. Photo by Kristene Brook Moore.

Last week, I attended a rock show.

I don’t go to shows often these days. But when an old friend, on tour in my city, asked if I wanted to be on the guest list, how could I say no?

Twenty years ago, I attended this friend’s shows. Back then, he was the frontman of a popular rockabilly band. Dripping in charisma. Handsome sonuvabitch. We became friends. Back then, I fucked most of my friends, but this dude won’t one of ‘em. He had a girlfriend to whom he was, and remains, apparently loyal, as she is now his wife of many years and the mother of his children.

But when I knew him, we were only kids.

Only kids. Sweaty and screaming. Him from the stage. Me, the front row. Cigarettes burning. The early 2000s. Life had just begun, and it was lived in-person. High school was a mere handful of years behind us. The future stretched out long before us. Who would we become?

Rockstars, for sure. He was already a rockstar. And I—was a fan.

To see him on stage now, two decades later—

and this time, he is not the front man of a rock band but instead a clown Elvis impersonator—

and this time, I’m not a twenty-two year old wildling with big tits and no children but instead a goddamn middle-aged woman with deflated tits and not one but TWO children??????????—

To see him on stage again now, two decades later, well—it ignited within me an absolute ache for my youth, a youth which has shockingly left me.

Now, at 42, I look upon the reality of my years and fear, reasonably, that the climb to greatness is over, and now—now, I begin the decline.

You’ll tell me the best is yet to come. You’ll say the fifties are amazing! You’ll advise that these dark spells turn around once menopause is complete???? HOW TF IS MENOPAUSE EVEN ON THE TABLE! I will smile and nod with your well-wishes but somewhere primal and animal, I do not agree. I’m mad! Life has gone too fast! We place on the table the flower in bloom; our love of youth cannot be fully blamed on ageist pop culture; somewhere you, too, suspect this. Ageist pop culture may in fact reflect an uncomfortable truth: we love youth because it is full of possibility, open, pliable, and pretty. We fear age because our bodies break down, and then we FUCKIN DIE.

My sciatica been actin’ up. I am not as pretty as I once was. You will say you are as beautiful as ever, but we will both know:

We wondered then who we would become, we gorgeous children, howling into a night now twenty years gone. It turns out, we had already became. Nothing magical happened to change us, other than years, and families, and dreams that lived or died, and so here we are—a lifetime now between us and those nights—fundamentally the same people. Those nights screaming lyrics, drinking until sunrise, everybody falling in love with everyone, life only beginning to unfurl: we lived those nights, we did. Those weren’t characters in a movie we saw, those wild kids—no, they were us, these very bodies that stand here now, a bit more worn, but housing still the same hearts.

I thought by now I would feel different. Instead, I have followed myself across all the eras of my life. I thought when I grew up, I’d be different. Instead, inside, I remain.

I wanted so badly, then, to know what my answers would be. How it would all work out. Who I would marry. How many children I would have. What would I become? An artist? Famous? I wanted so badly, then, to know. I paid psychics; I gazed into crystal balls. I prayed for it all to happen as soon as possible. A ring. A promise. A plan.

And yet here I am, where I longed to be, and it has all happened; my life has unfolded; I know the answers; my future of unwritten possibility, now a book gathering dust. Another wrinkle. Another early bedtime. Be careful with the cheese. It disturbs your belly.

Here I am, where I longed to be—

and I yearn to be back there again, 2003, my life a mystery, my cheeks plump with youth.

Me, age 42, twerking on stage with a clown. Photo by Kristene Brooke Moore.

Mikey, you went backstage to wipe off the greasepaint, and although the bartender turned the lights on while you were away, I waited for your return. And when you did return, clean-faced, you looked like a boy I once knew, a boy that once knew me. I put my hands on your shoulders and I told you, perhaps too earnestly, that I love you. I love the wild youth you stir in my soul. Those sweaty nights, those precious summer weekends—they left a mark on me. You are a talisman of an era. My heart is pierced with the sight of you.

I don’t want to make too much of things. I don’t want to embarrass myself by revealing my corny feelings. Sometimes, I think other people mean more to me than I mean to them. I wonder how often I’m right.

But what I wouldn’t give for one more night, Heavy Rebel Weekender, early aughts, hangovers be damned, and a whole life before us—

if only the coming of dawn wouldn’t break my heart.

From left to right: Mikey, me, Deano. Circa 2002/2003.

—L.B., June 2024