Ten years ago…when I was 22 (#holycrapwheredidthetimego) I was a barely employed cocktail waitress who filled many of my non-working days dating a semi-employed cinematographer who was 14 years my senior. Functional the relationship was not, yet I suppose at the time, it was my way of testing the waters of adult-hood. It was a relationship of excess–lots of sex, lots of coffee, lots of yoga (I live in LA, remember?) I had just moved from my parents place in to my own apartment nestled right below the Hollywood sign on a street called Beachwood Canyon. You really couldn’t get more “text book LA chick” than I was except maybe for the fact that I didn’t do hard drugs or date a guitarist.
As fiercely independent and mature as I thought I was, my mom still wrote me a check every month so I could afford food (#blessherheart). My semi-employed cinematographer lived about 3 blocks up the street from me, making our “relationship” highly convenient and wildly dysfunctional. There were a lot of tears, messy booze filled nights, and tons of self help books read during that year of my life.
I think back on that year and it feels like I am remembering a really badly written WB teen drama I watched a few episodes of…but there is something about who I was then that was so open. Part of me misses that girl. Every day of life was a page turner, a slumber party, a beautiful mess. Trust me when I say, I would NOT want to go back…but there are wisps of nostalgia that I am trying to grab onto.
Why, you ask? Why all of this nostalgia now?
I sprained my neck in yoga yesterday.
Doing a headstand.
Yep. The wild sexin coffee chugging lithe yoga chick of yore has been replaced by a wobbly 31 year old woman who tweaks her neck in a yoga pose that all of the 22 year olds in class had no problem with.
Aside from that, my 30 Day Yoga Challenge is going great! I am trying not to think about the neck thing too much. It’s not too bad–just tweaked–and I can still do my yoga, so I’m not going to let the injury stop me from finishing the challenge. It just reminds me that I’m not 22 anymore. Rationally, I don’t want to be. But there is something about the physicality of who I was back then that makes me whimsical.
Ironically, although I was drinking, smoking, and eating poorly, “22” was the only year of my life that my period came like clockwork, every 30 days or so. Why this happened then, and never before or never after is still a mystery to me…unless sex, coffee and yoga are really my miracle recipe for ovulation?