A Faux Identity Crisis Response to a Beautiful Love Letter

 Tonight Mr. Artsy Hotpants sent me the piece he had written about us and our time together in the city. It was heartbreaking and beautiful, wistful and spot on. And it made me ache so profoundly for that time and those versions of us. 

Don't get me wrong, I am not washed up and done for. This version of the self is not leftover breakfast pizza that never made it into the fridge the night before. But this version is definitely more tired...leaps and bounds more tired...and maybe up for more adventures of the calm and peaceful and quiet type, and less the hilariously slightly dysfunctional type. 

MAH said we grew up. We became adults. 

I desperately want to fight this assertion. Even the kids say I am not a grown up, because I am an actor and artists don't ever really grow up. (I may have spoon fed them this version, because its the version I like best). This is partly true- you have to be a notch below full on grown up to be able to live in (or belly flop into?) the world of imagination. But if I'm fully honest, there is an awful lot of grown up shit occupying the remnants of brain space that remain. 

And I hate that.

The current iteration of the self lives so much less in the moment than the nyc iteration. NYC Synge gave very few fucks about unimportant shit - she was too busy just trying to survive and drinking up (sometimes literally) all the adventures and stories to be found. Middle age Synge finds too much shame around every bend and every decision and every perceived failure at being grown up. Middle aged Syge wants to be NYC Synge, but is just too tired, and the kids won't ever pause for breath in neverending monologues that seem to resume the second they wake back up again, and everyone is about to run out of clean underwear but instead of doing laundry she eats the entire bag of pirate's booty while watching mindless television and then has to stay up until 5:30am catching up on the work hours she somehow neglected while maniacally shoving fistfuls of white cheddar puffs of unknown origin into her face. 

But for just the briefest of moments tonight, I got to feel that NYC Synge space and time. 

It felt thrilling and oddly illicit, and then it was over. And what remains is an enormous longing that feels like boulders stacked haphazardly on my chest, white cheddar dust scattered all over the chair, and the sinking awareness that while I was supposed to be working, I wrote a post on an ancient hidden blog and tonight will not be the night I finally get my shit together.

(NYC Synge would not give any fucks, and would already be laughing at this over wine with her beloved MAH)