I hope I wake up young again.
I went to a concert on Friday. My friend Alice - who regularly appears in this newsletter as the Queen of Girlie Plans - texted me in November: “Do you want to go see Noah Kahan and Gracie Abrams in June?” Immediate yes. 10 minutes later, she had organised a group of 7 girls and I had transferred the money for my ticket.
I was tagging along with an existing group of friends, which is always nerve-wracking. My latent trauma from high school bullies likes to rear its ugly head during times like these. Was my outfit right? Did I pack the right things? Is this the cool way to wear my hair? Do my legs look bad in this dress? Does everyone secretly hate me and I am so annoying and uncool and now I have to worry about being old, too, and does the insecurity ever end??
After asking three different group chats for outfit advice (sorry, guys, I didn’t listen to any of you), I packed my bag and hoped for the best. I need not worry though, because everyone was truly lovely and I think I slotted right into the group. One of the girls said she wasn’t sure about her dress, did it look right, do her legs look bad?
Reader, she looked great. Like, great.
And I realised I hadn’t paid attention to a single person’s legs. I didn’t notice anyone’s back fat or laugh lines or pale skin or any of that. With the exception of the girl who bent over and wasn’t wearing underwear, I don’t think we noticed what anyone was - or wasn’t - wearing.
That’s a lie - I did notice that everyone looked beautiful. And young. And happy. And joyful. Full of warm drinks and greasy chips and sunshine and fresh air. We danced around and sang off-key and ate pizza - glorious carbs! - and drank too much rosé.
I thought of my dad, and how happy he would be to see this. How much I wish he could see me living this life, full of carbs and drinks, holding hands with friends. There’s a line from one of Noah Kahan’s songs:
All that's left of myself, holes in my false confidence,
and now I lay myself down and hope I wake up young again.
The false confidence got me out the door, but when I’m 90-years-old I will long for my 32-year-old legs, and skin, and I will wish I could still wear ruffly short dresses and dance all night, eating pizza and drinking wine. I will wish I could wake up young again, on a warm June evening in London.
And suddenly, I don’t care about what my legs look like anymore.
