These days I start most of my sentences with “When I was in LA…”, and what follows is usually some anecdote about how much healthier/wiser/more disciplined I was when I was quarantined with my parents on the other side of the country.
I got back to the city on a rainy day in early July. The dampness of the air as I stepped out of my Uber and onto the doorstep of my apartment greeted me like a betrayer’s kiss. I couldn’t have imagined that within two weeks of arriving back to New York my apartment would get broken into, I’d be kicked out of said apartment, and have to scramble to find a new place before the month was up.
It rained on the day I toured our new apartment which I took to be a good sign. I know that saying really only counts for weddings, but when you’ve dealt with a racist landlord and have looked a burglar in the eyes, you look for signs of good luck wherever you can find them.
Luckily, we got the apartment. My new roommate and I moved in August 1st, and all lived happily ever after.
If only it were that easy.
Since moving (to an otherwise perfect neighborhood) we’ve had random leaks, a roach sighting, a secondhand furniture fiasco, a broken oven, power outages, and a bedbug scare. I haven’t had a normal day since I got back to New York. Everyday I wake up and I feel like the world is ending. And as far as I’m concerned it absolutely is.
I often long for those mundane, dare I say boring, days spent cooped up in my childhood bedroom in the SoCal suburbs doing Yoga with Adriene twice a day and taking long walks around the state college nearby because I had nothing better to do.
I made a smoothie for me and my mom everyday. I texted my therapist regularly and journaled my intentions for a hopeful future. I started this newsletter, even. I fantasized about it becoming bigger than I could ever imagine.
I find myself talking about when I was in LA as proof that I’m not completely incompetent. For some reason the fact that I drink more now, or it feels like pulling teeth just to roll out my yoga mat feels less bad if I say how different things were “when I was in LA.”
Recently, I’ve been hearing myself say it more, and so I feel the need to tack on “I know I keep saying this but…” in the hopes that I sound less annoying or to prove my self-awareness.
But the truth is, things weren’t exactly phenomenal when I was in LA, either. Yes, I was close to family, and I was saving money, and I could hike near the beach. But in so many ways it felt like my life was on pause. I was back under my parents’ roof, adhering to their rules after I’d worked so hard to move to New York on my own. I missed my autonomy. I missed my closet. I missed drinking wine on a Tuesday night because I could. I missed myself. Not that I wasn’t myself in LA, but I missed the self I was in New York.
I realize that romanticizing the past is but a survival mechanism. Especially now, when it feels nearly impossible to envision the future.
And yet, I know that one day there will be a time that I romanticize the life that I’m living right now. I’ll romanticize lugging the couch I bought on letgo up the stairs with my friends. I’ll romanticize knocking on every door in the building when our power went out. I’ll romanticize the way the apartment smelled before we came in with our candles and incense and kitchen scents and made it our own.
The present is a time to remember. It’s formative and grounding. And one day I’ll be saying “When I lived in Greenpoint…” as a testament to how good I am at taking care of myself and knowing exactly who I am.
Photo credit: Leah Lu
This week’s prompt is: In <500 words romanticize the present moment. Whatever that means to you. (No submission link this time. JUST WRITE!)
Before I go, I want to plug this incredible article by Jin Kim. I literally would not have mustered up the energy to sit down and write this newsletter tonight had I not been inspired by this piece. Thanks for sharing yourself, Jin.
Until next time (who knows when that will be).
Best,
Celeste