Threadbare

I look down at myself in the shower, and I am crooked yet again. My right knee is collapsed into my left one, right hip sagging, lower back concaved, both feet turning in toward each other. Lately, I’ve noticed my body always folds into itself in this same way. While I have tried to pay attention and undo my knees when they collapse into one another like this, I haven’t had much luck. Even in the shower, my body finds a way to come back to its crumpled comfort zone. 

Aging, like most tried to warn us, has come with a few twists and turns: knees collapsing into one another, a bit of grumpiness that never fully dissipates, weird stomach gurgling at inconvenient hours, frequent existential crises that can turn swiftly from overwhelming emotion to overwhelming apathy. If I could sum up the start of my 26th year in song, it would be part “Hand in My Pocket” by Alanis Morrisette part “Maybe This Time” by Liza Minnelli part “I’m Like a Bird” by Nelly Furtado and part “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls. Not that I’ve thought extensively about it or anything. 

Some existential crises I bring upon myself. On day 8 million of quarantine, I decided to look through old texts on my phone. I make it through four years of undeleted text messages to stumble upon a “Hello!” text from Deha sent at 1:23 am in the morning. Who the fuck is Deha!? What is our story? What could have been!! I keep scrolling. A few minutes later, I find a more shuddersome text history with someone named Danielle, which was a series of six, I repeat six, unanswered texts I sent that began innocently with me sending , “It’s Aly!” before I very quickly escalated to “Drinks!!!!? I HAVE NO SOCIAL LIFE. HANG OUT!!” 

Other existential crises have happened to me unplanned. One particularly strong one occurred in the movie theater while watching Toy Story 4 last summer. My two friends and I were some of the few people in the packed audience over the age of 8 who were not accompanying a young child. I was there for the nostalgia, and more honestly, to recover from the emotional trauma of Toy Story 3 that, quite frankly, fucked me up good. 

I was sitting next to a young kid who was there with their dad and sibling. Throughout the movie, the child would exclaim in joy and wonder as the cartoon unfolded in front of us. By the time we reached the final scenes of the movie, I was on the same emotional plane as the child. As Woody says goodbye to Buzz and his other friends FOREVER, I hear the kid say softly, “Daddy, how could they leave Woody?”. With knowing tears streaming down my face, it took everything in my power not to say, “Bitch, just you fucking wait.”

Even amidst all the existential crises, I have come to know a few things for certain:

• I can make a damn good frittata, which includes-- dare I say-- a special ingredient. Have I learned not to eat the whole thing in one sitting? That’s what my thirties are for. 

• I have heard developing a complex, astrologically-oriented personality chart for your imaginary ideal partner is the same thing as actually dating someone. So. Currently, it is a tie between two imaginary personality charts. I want you to know that I have reflected, I have done some mapping, I have erased and revised, and I have imagined first date scenarios and adjusted accordingly. First option is a Chidi Anygonye sun with a Steve Brady rising and a Sairose Ronan moon. ALTERNATIVELY, I am equally enthused by a Nick Miller sun (specifically Nick Miller from seasons 2 and 3 of New Girl) with a Harry Styles rising and a Phoebe Waller-Bridge moon. 

• I have coined my style as librarian chique, part bookish, part “oh this? I just threw it on, darling”.

• I have big dreams for my late twenties. Well, actually, I have one very specific daydream that I envision every night before going to sleep. In my dream, I go to a thrift store in search of a matching short-suit. Like, a patterned blazer and a matching pair of shorts, NOT pants. At the thrift store, I plan to find the short-suit spontaneously, of course. It’s been a long day, but when I am about ready to give up, I stumble across the perfect embroidered floral short-suit on a rack pressed against velvet walls and an ornate reading chair. I hold it up against the light, and I can automatically tell it’s my size. I put the blazer on over my sweater and find an old love note addressed to “Annabelle” in the pocket. The note is yellowed and creased, a single tear marks the upper right corner. Yet, on the front of the note is Annabelle’s address written in smudged calligraphy. The address sends me on an undercover journalistic mission to trace down this love story and the origins of the floral short-suit. I wear a small pencil tucked behind my ear, ready to take notes at any moment. I show up at Annabelle’s door, and a woman answers. Her eyes immediately recognize the short-suit, a wry smile forms as she begins, “Our love started the summer of ‘88 just as the rain clouds came into town…”. Later that evening, intoxicated by Annabelle’s love story, I stumble into a karaoke bar on my way home. I reach for the stack of paper to put my name in for karaoke, but I meet another hand grabbing for the paper at the same time. I look up to meet eyes with Harry Styles. He smiles at me and says if we name the same karaoke song, it is fate that we should sing together. After a tense count of three, we both exclaim, “Brass in Pocket” by the Pretenders. His eyes light up, an invitation… 

Okay, um, hi. Sorry about that. I’m back. Flushed, but back. I promise I am also trying to work on non-daydream dreams as well. In pre-quarantine times, I was a regular at Floor Polish, a community dance studio in Tucson. At first, I started to go as a fun way to move my body. I also wanted to try to tame my crooked knees a bit and possibly learn how to trip less. When I first began attending class, I could never take any of the “sexy” moves seriously. The sultry struts toward the mirror? I’d look down and evade my own eye contact. The hip rolls? Mostly avoid and use my shoulders instead. 

I have never been able to take myself seriously when trying to be sexy. I had hoped this would be an adolescent habit that would fade as I emerged into my late twenties, but I fear it has only grown stronger. I am sure there are emotional layers to this that I will unpack at a later time, but I know the heart of it is that believing in my sexiness would mean taking myself seriously. It would mean welcoming myself with grace when I am crooked, when bangs fall in my eyes, when I stumble. Looking at myself this way would be uncharted territory. It’d be a new beginning. 

After a few weeks of going to dance class, I started paying attention to the moves of those around me. There was one person who often stood in the back with me. They always wore neon, bright colors that ricocheted off the disco ball that got turned on halfway through class. I liked watching them because they so enthusiastically embraced the music. Every lyric was sung, and their performance was theatrical in nature. I particularly liked watching them during the strut. Without reservation, they dropped their hands to their hips, poised their shoulders back, and looked directly at their reflection as they moved forward to the beat. It was still light and airy and fun, but I could tell the walk resonated with a feeling deep within them. 

It took me several classes to get better at the dance routines. I still fell a bit or missed a move, but I was improving. Yet, I still hadn’t managed to look at myself during the strut. I continued to keep my eyes firmly to the floor. One Wednesday in late February, I came to one of my last classes before the pandemic. I remember I was a little in my head. I missed a few moves, ran into the person next to me, scrambled a bit to catch up. After the water break, I heard the instructor slowly welcome us back to class as an Ariana Grande song started to play. I started to sway and move because I loved the song and wanted to refocus. Across the room, I saw my most admired strut person, and they had their face raised to the ceiling, disco lights placing colored polka dots all around them. They were so open. I smiled and looked away. I closed my eyes, searching for a bit of faith. As the chorus started, I did a twirl, put my hands on my hips, strutted toward the front of the class, and gave my best eyes to my reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t perfect. My hair was a bit wild, and my socks were pulled up unevenly, but I was taking myself seriously. I let a breath out and felt the tie between my heart and my lungs begin again. When I finally smiled at myself in the mirror, I could see that I meant it. 

~

When I first moved to New York-- years ago now, a moment that has begun to yellow and crease as a memory-- I bought a shitty pair of threadbare curtains. Patterned with white and grey stripes, the thin linen did nothing to block the sun in the mornings. Some days, this added an optimistic touch to the start of my day, while in other, more hungover times, the sunlight proved to be a real pain in the ass. These curtains witnessed a lot of key events that year: the aftermath of an election, a few wanna-be-slutty outfits, laughter, loneliness, fear, strength. 

In the years since I’ve moved, I think of these curtains every time I begin something new. I find comfort in the grey, the white, the thread. I don’t think we give beginnings enough credit for their raggedness, how they start threadbare, almost too thin for us to notice them. I cannot remember most of my new beginnings; they are fuzzy and confusing, only put into context by what happens next. No matter how prepared I have felt to start over and begin a new life, I have never become accustomed to the embodied experience of watching my old life unravel. I am always awestruck by the chaos of it-- the confusion, the yet-to-come, the farewell. How in a quiet instant when I least expect it, I start to move on. Yet, even with the coarseness of new beginnings, listening for when to go, listening for when to leave, listening for when to bend toward a questionmark future-- these are the lessons I have most loved learning. 

On my more optimistic days, I like to remind myself that we rarely foresee how all our beginnings and endings might come back for us someday. While I have been living in Tucson, Arizona for some time now, I still often think of my goodbye with my friend Zatio when I left New York City three years ago. It’s a rare new beginning I remember with clarity, one of those memories I have sort of held onto and used as I’ve grown older. 

Zatio and I have actually had two big goodbyes during our friendship, and they are mirror images of one another. The first time we said goodbye was six years ago, and I was running to catch a taxi. Six years ago, we were in Bolivia and it was dark and there were food truck lights and we didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again. The second time, we hug goodbye in a Brooklyn subway station and I am running again to make the train. I push my feet against the tile and the wink of the light and the whirring of the train, and we still cannot know if we will ever see each other again. I meet this goodbye with as open of a heart as I can carry. As I make it down the subway station stairs, I feel both our goodbyes layered on top of one another, holding the two versions of us in place. 

I hold onto these dual memories for a few reasons. Ultimately, I think they help me believe in love that transitions from days sitting next to each other on the couch to missed phone calls and long voicemails and memories replayed as daydreams. They help me believe in the hard ending of love that has changed us, but that we decide to let go of for the sake of healing and growth. And they help me believe in the soft, fuzzy ending of love that we carry in hopes that it might boomerang back to us again. As I make it down the subway station stairs, that peculiar mixture of loss and elation sits at the base of my stomach. I almost take one last look back, but I instead let myself run with the full weight of letting go. 

At the end of the stairs, I meet the train and walk between the closing subway doors. I hold onto the pole, letting my ankles bend into the shakiness of the train. My knees, without thinking, fall into one another, my right knee pressing in deep behind my left one. My legs, once again, have come home crooked. With my body finally still, I meet the forward movement of the train where it is at, without too much faith or resistance.

When I make it back to my apartment later that night, I lie on my bed, jacket still wrapped around me. I look through my threadbare curtains to see raindrops drip wet against the window: fast, crooked, confrontational. They move down across the glass, curving along incongruent paths. I notice they all find a way back to one another, even when their paths are often difficult and unknown. After a while, I feel the seams of my body crisscross onto one another until I am properly tired and warm. My jaw releases and pulls me closer to the haze of dreams. Protected amidst the quiet, I let the night embrace me. 

I fall asleep beneath curtains that will never stop the light from coming in the morning.