who the hell am I, anyway?

I caught up this weekend with two friends from my distant past (or what passes for distant past at 30) -- one from five years ago, and one from high school. And what I'd say to anyone contemplating this is simply: don't do it in one weekend. Even if that weekend is long, it's bound to be an odd, strange, self-questioning weekend, after which you'll need much recuperation with friends who know you really well and can remind you of who the hell you are now. Not who you were then, but who you are now.

[Or maybe, if you don't feel like you're holding your life together with string, spit and the-best-you-can-do-at-a-prayer, you can get through a weekend like that on your own. If not, I highly recommend Christina, Lisa, Sarah and Thea (in alphabetical order).]

The heartbreaking difference that I see in myself between me now and me five years ago is that I've lost most of the unbridled joy that simply comes with being young and living without worrying about the future. I hadn't been a secretary for eight years at that point, and wasn't worried that I'd be one for the rest of my life. I hadn't gone out with [insert increasingly obscene large number here] men and had it not work out. I hadn't yet begun to worry that a) I wouldn't have babies before I'm too old, b) I'd never find a man who could meet all my criteria (simple as they may seem to me), c) I would somehow let down my parents, friends or myself by not ever making a decision about my life... god, the list of what I wasn't doing then goes on and on and on.

I look back and I totally miss it -- even if, sure, a great deal of it was stupidity, ignorance and naivetee. I had no idea where I stood in the world (not that I really do now) and that didn't bother me.

I remember my roommate's favorite mantra at the time (which I both loathed her for, and secretly chanted to myself late at night in the dark): "It's ok, it's not happening." (Now it's more of a "Oh shit. It's probably going to happen.") And as I looked at these people from my past, I wondered if they think I've completely turned to shit. Where is the Kate they used to know? (And who the hell is this sitting across from me drinking all that red wine??? Her hair looks like a mushroom!)

I know (as it was reassuringly reflected to me by one friend) that most of the changes that I've made over time have been for the best. I've ditched evil, evil "friends" and found myself some truly wonderful women who are worthy of my love. I've moved out on my own, into a terrific little apartment that I adore. I've stood up for myself, questioned myself, found (and then lost again, but found for a fleeting moment) myself, and I know this is all fantastic.

But where is that old Kate? The one who believed in Capital T Theatre. Who felt like she just needed the right opportunity to make some Great Art. The Kate who took solace from the idea that she had plenty of time to make things happen. Who believed that they would, in fact, happen. Where is she? Because I feel like I've been sanded down, and that shiny, smooth, sparkly varnish that was so lovely to look at is gone. I'm just the table/bookcase/bedpost underneath.

Maybe I'm looking at this from the wrong angle. Maybe I'm meant to be just the table, and not the shiny shiny object d'arte.

I've got both an oddly mixed metaphor and a case of really bad feng shui. Either way, it's not ok. It's still happening.