By She She

There is so much of my twenties that I don’t remember. I wanted so desperately to feel something authentic but did everything possible to make sure I didn’t feel anything at all. I drank and engaged in all sorts of risky behavior, but personally, I was risk-averse. I was shy, awkward, depressed and afraid. And my fears kept me safe, but they also kept me from experience. I think this is why I can barely remember so many of these years. I ghostwalked through them, never feeling more than I had to. A non-participant in my own life.

Looking back, it’s like a movie that I kind of remember seeing. I have a vague plot line, but I can’t really remember individual scenes. It’s scattershot. Sometimes someone will tell a story from that time, and I’ll nod and say, “Oh, yes, I remember that now.” Or, “I don’t remember that at all. You’re sure I was there?”

A few weeks ago, I thought of one moment that brought me a small twinge of pain and regret.

I had traveled to Paris to visit a friend over the Christmas break. She’d been invited to a New Year’s Eve party at a friend’s estate in the country. I hadn’t packed a party dress, so Claire lent me a sweater and one of her black work skirts, which I wore with my black biker boots. Between being underdressed and not speaking the language very well, I felt conspicuous and self-conscious.

After we arrived, Claire left me to mingle with her friends. The music was loud, and I could barely understand a word people were saying. One young man asked me to dance. He really wouldn’t take no for an answer. He tugged my hand gently and said in his lovely accent, “C’mon. Let’s dance. I want to dance with you. Please. Dance with me.” I backed away. “No, no. I don’t want to dance now. No, thank you. I don’t want to dance.” I felt so self-conscious, alone, and out of my league with these young socialites. I’d never felt so far from home. I just wanted to leave. Finally, he kissed my cheek and walked away to ask someone else.

I want to tell my 22 year old self, Go! Dance! Say yes! There are some things you will never get a second chance to do.

But I don’t dance. I don’t say yes. Instead, I sit at a table on the side watching the whirling, laughing figures while a dour young Frenchman harangues me for an hour about how evil America is. Mmmm-hmmm. Yes. Oh. Americans bombed Canadians at Dieppe on purpose, you say? Oh. Well. Yes, that’s awful. What’s that? Yes, I would like another drink.

I’ve turned this memory over so many times in my mind over the last few weeks that there are very few sharp edges of regret left.

So I’ll put one in the column of Opportunities Lost. And I’ll put one in the column of Lessons Learned. And I’ll try not to be the girl who won’t dance.

Original post here.