At a Brooklyn holiday party, I sunk into the corner near the Christmas Tree and told a random stranger, “I feel like my life is derailing.”
“Put it back on track,” he said.
“I feel like it’s too late,” I said.
He laughed. “Its never too late.”
I wrote about New Years with the sort of manufactured gratitude that can steam the slowest wheels (“I have everything and everything is great!”). But it didn’t last long. I have the same frenzy about the seasons as I do about getting older -- the sudden temperature change makes me realize how fast time is passing, how each year your goals slip away.
The short story: I feel, on the whole, that I am losing time.
A great example would be the past few months. I did a lot but feel like I did nothing at all. Post-New Years, when the freezing weather hit, I drew an impossible list of things to complete. I made plans to go to a museum every week, and host a salon in March. The salon never happened, and I only went to the Morgan Library once with L. Bo and I went to Phoenicia, but in feverish impatience I pushed myself to do a trip to Hong Kong.
Back in the states, Bo and I went up to Connecticut to his family Mill House to spend the holiday weekend. We walked the grounds, exploring the efficient dams and rivers that power the house and giggling at his niece’s excitement when the Easter Bunny came. The very next day we found ourselves in Philadelphia for another Easter dinner. Four states in a two day period.
In the following weeks I attended 90s-themed birthday parties where all the guests danced to N’Sync (remember them?), had dinners with old friends at cute spots in West Village. I met a homeless man on a bench in Washington Square Park.
I tried to write. I let my brain get fuzzy. I went to bed early and whined to Bo. I should be happy that the weather is warm, instead I just feel myself getting older. I try to find remedies in everything: in stripped shirts, midtown walks, expensive lunches, ballet tickets, writing, reading, films -- I can’t get it.
I think about my Christmas Party conversation, partly embarrassed that I revealed so much to a stranger -- but it’s true. It’s easy to flush a couple of years down the drain if you’re not looking. If only time would stop, allow me to think, to form a path.
This is where I am right now.
(I promise I’ll write, eventually.)