It’s funny to be starting somewhere new after over three decades of being in one place. Of course, within those decades I experienced newness in doses. For instance, the year the band that’s name-checked above came on the scene I moved from Cali to NYC (1984 for those of you who managed to avoid the NKOTB early phenom) to go to college. I started new jobs, I went to new bars. I met new people and took chances in new situations. I’m not writing this with the intention of saying it’s more challenging this time to be a new kid than when I was younger. Actually, it’s a lot less fraught emotionally given I don’t feel like my entire future depends on every career decision I make and every person I meet. But it does bring into focus some real who-am-I moments. Especially as I’m fresh off the packing & moving boat, which required me to go through boxes of old pictures deciding which to keep and which were completely worthy of the bin. This activity not only took me twice as long as it did to pack up the entire kitchen at Haven avenue, but in the end I think only seven photos were discarded—all of which went to my friend Elizabeth to use in her awesome art.

Naturally I (re)discovered many things about myself that I’d forgotten or possibly just locked in some attic in my mind. When I found the photo above, I was happy to discover that the high-waisted short with suspenders (?cuz that was a thing?!) look was not a terrible choice for me. My love of knee socks has clearly carried on (thanks, Dennis, for giving me space in his chest of drawers so I can still own a stupid amount of socks. That I’ll rarely need to wear for warmth. But still). My sporting of braids has also been a time-honored thang, altho I moved away from that just a few years ago thanks to my friends Amy and Windy who talked me through a particularly poignant who-am-I moment in my mid-fifties and I let go of the braids until I become eightysomething and want to sport a Patti Smith vibe. I also had a perm back then, which I know because that explosion coming out from under the bandanna headband are my bangs. Yes, I permed my bangs. That was a mistake.

I blatantly copied my looks from my favorite magazine at the time. Viva. I loved their style (Anna Wintour was their fashion editor in the early 70s). But imagine my surprise when I did a search just now for the magazine and found that it was marketed as soft-core porn for women and published by Bob Guccione. Huh? I liked that it was edgy. They had good writers (hello, Joyce Carol-Oates) but really, I loved their fashion spreads, which had a little something more than I could find in Seventeen magazine. Possibly that was the soft-porn part. (I have now found some pretty purple moments online that I apparently never remembered seeing. But it does explain a few things.) The fact that I went on to work for Bob Guccione Jr. at SPIN in the nineties only deepens the six degrees life offers.

When I stood in front of the mountain range pictured above at the age of 22, the world was ahead of me. At the time, I may not have known that I would be moving to New York City. I did know that I loved music and writing words and I adored magazines. I’m sure I also knew on some level that I’d need to leave the Southern California of my childhood to find the career and stimulation that I wanted. I was probably scared on some level. Excited on another. Definitely confused. No doubt hopeful and possibly a bit stoned.

Now being back in Southern California, I am all those things again (except for the stoned part) as I face this set of mountains. I step into places where no one knows me and I gauge what that feels like. Decide who I am in the space. I’d gotten so used to knowing someone in the room that it’s really interesting to just be invisible for a minute while not taking anything for granted. Walking into a barre class at a gym down the street, I try and figure out where to stand in the studio since naturally the regulars have their spots. Should I just stake a claim? Or wait until everyone’s planted? A new doctor’s office where they ask me all the questions I haven’t had to answer in years and it occurs to me that sometimes people look at you differently if you’re in your fifties, have had abortions, and don’t have kids (or I’m totally making that up, am suddenly sensitive about my life choices and the nurse has a natural twitch). I meet the neighbors and don’t assume that they think purple hair and tattoos are cool, although I still think they are, so in that regard, I celebrate and wouldn’t change a thing. But I’m a bit quieter while I get to know the space around me. When I go to aerobics with my dad, that’s a place I feel totally at home. I’ve gone there with him for years, starting back when we’d come to visit annually. At the beginning, I felt like a visitor. Now I feel at home among all the bodies who move slowly and deliberately through this thing called silver sneakers class. I’m old enough to enjoy it without my ego getting weird. I’m recognizing all the life in the room and how we fill it so differently. Point is I’m (still) learning how to move in it.

And fashion…my love. Now I get it from thrift stores and my closet. Knee socks and all.

In the meantime, thanks for coming on the ride! Where are you all currently feeling most comfortable in the world? Do you have lots of socks (or other things you don’t really wear but can’t get rid of?)