down bad crying on the peloton
Blood, sweat, and (nostalgic) tears in my glittering prime
You wouldn’t know it from the rather dramatic title to today’s missive, but I’m incredibly happy today. My routine has been very off (anyone else feel me?)—meaning that I am perpetually 3-9 minutes late to meetings, Tuesdays feel like Thursdays, and I am not in my writing groove as I was this summer. That being said, I’m sitting in my living room, a drizzly PNW morning happening right outside my window, and I’m sipping a strong cup of coffee. To make things even more wonderful, my best friend and her partner are visiting this weekend, and we have tickets with our significant others to see Kacey Musgraves—a Texas invasion of the PNW for an early fall perfect weekend.
Any time Marley and I get together, a layer of nostalgia creeps in. It’s a multi-faceted nostalgia with two components: nostalgia for the short time we lived in the same city, and a pre-nostalgia for the memories we’re literally in the middle of making. Though we always try to have the next date we’ll see each other on the calendar, we aren’t always able to do it. Life sh*t happens or work and family obligations get in the way. But this year, we’ve hit the gold standard—many dates and all on the calendar by the time we say teary goodbyes at the airport. While it makes me happy, it also adds another layer of nostalgia.
Millennials get accused of being the nostalgic generation, or at least anecdotally we do. As an Elder Millennial1 myself, I’m sitting at 38 years old in a liminal space with three versions of myself:
I am young enough to have crisp, vivid memories of my girlhood and teenage years.
I currently have a very particular confidence and comfort in my self-worth and self-awareness that only comes with some years’ experience.
I look forward to the next phase of life with excitement, anticipation, and wonder of the brink of an ‘older/wiser’ womanhood.
In other words, I’m at an age where, for the first time, the maiden-mother-crone archetypes are all kind of swimming together in my heart, soul, and brain—not really at odds with each other, per se, but the combo certainly creates a ripe emotional state for nostalgia.
Dipping into girlhood requires a suspension of disbelief or just a particularly silly moment fueled by the company I keep (usually other women) or the art I’m consuming (e.g., the Eras Tour). I don’t worry too much about “what others think of me”—something that consumed my late teens and twenties. Nor do I see too many grey hairs or fine lines on my face, and the ones I do I wear with pride. I still recognize the girl I was, and I’m confident in the woman I’ve become. That’s not to say I don’t experience doubt, imposter syndrome, or anxiety, but those emotions are no longer borne from feeling like an ingénue.
I recently did a Taylor Swift themed Peloton ride—thirty minutes of music from her recent album, The Tortured Poets Department. I sang loudly and enthusiastically as the familiar lyrics pumped through my AirPods. I even hit the raging screaming line—“Who’s afraid of little old meeeee?”—with force and enthusiasm, much to the dismay of my two dogs and partner, I’m sure. I was feeling myself and also feeling a lot of positive emotions during the first 25 minutes of this 30 minute ride.
The penultimate song—I Can Do It With a Broken Heart—started playing, and that’s when I surprised myself. Tears started running down my cheeks, evolving into a full-throated sob. Apparently, even at 38, my emotional/hormonal responses can still sneak up on me. The tear-filled, red-faced episode lasted only one verse and one run through the chorus:
I can read your mind "She's having the time of her life" There in her glittering prime The lights refract sequined stars off her silhouette every night I can show you lies (one, two, three, four) 'Cause I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit They said, "Babe, you gotta fake it 'til you make it" and I did Lights, camera, bitch smile, even when you wanna die He said he'd love me all his life But that life was too short Breaking down, I hit the floor All the pieces of me shattered as the crowd was chanting, "More" I was grinning like I'm winning, I was hitting my marks 'Cause I can do it with a broken heart (one, two, three, four)
This mixture of sweat and tears felt different.
It felt poignant and layered.
It felt nostalgic.
With each lyric, my heart felt tighter… You’re a real tough kid, but I’m not a kid anymore. You can handle your shit, but only because I’ve seen some sh*t, and I know my limits, my boundaries, and my capacity, all of which I probably learned the hard way. They said babe, you gotta fake it ‘til you make it, and I did, but not because some other person said so. No, no, no. I faked it when I had to. I faked it when I knew it was (not to be dramatic) life or death of my dreams, values, or peace of mind. Sometimes I have had to do it with a broken heart because the only other option is not doing it at all, which is a tragedy not always worth the “what if.”
This song obviously hits a particular emotional center in my brain. Does it yours? Or, better yet, what song(s) does this to you? The amount of nostalgia playlists suggests that we all have a musical trigger.
So, anyway, TikTok tells me Y2K fashion is cool again, and I’m on the verge of attending my 20-year high school reunion in October. Perhaps nostalgia is always there, lurking in the dark musty corners of my brain. Perhaps right now, I’m happy with my best friend, I’m in active group chats with my high school friends, and pop culture tells me my coming-of-age fashion is “back.” Perhaps I just needed a good sweat and cry to a Taylor Swift song. Regardless, nostalgia is fun, let’s do it again.
If you don’t know Iliza Shlesinger, you should. She’s my favorite comedian and coined the phrase via her 2018 Netflix special of the same name.