I met my former self for coffee

I met my former self for coffee, and we both wandered in, right on time. (The parking lot car session to hype ourselves up is none of our business.)

Soon I’ll be 30, but that’s beyond her scope of recognition. She thinks of life through summer breaks, school bells between periods, afternoon drives to practice. She’s 10, she’s 13, she’s 16—she’s every piece of my past that quietly dissociated in private, zapped from hours of overachieving.

She quietly ordered a chai, surprised when she saw my confident exchange ordering a lavender latte. 

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She didn’t recognize me at first. “It’s okay,” I start. I know my body has grown and changed. “We love ourselves, even at our bigg—”

“You’re beautiful!” She cuts me off, in disbelief. She’s not worried about my size at all. She starts to cry, and I remember her all-consuming grief, worries that she never thought she’d see clear skin or confidence on her face. 

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She admires my tattoos in utter shock. There’s a bright contrast to her own arms, layered with a baggy sweatshirt designed to conceal. She squints at my face, where freckles still cover my cheeks. She can’t believe my hair is still red, that I never dyed it, that I’ve chosen to stand out. Her eyes catch a glimpse of my wedding ring, and I can tell she’s bursting at the seams, relieved that her fears of winding up alone are nothing more than a persistent nightmare.

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She asks very little, and I confirm even less. I remember the questions that keep her up at night: am I successful? Are all my loved ones still alive? Do I play softball professionally? Do I find my voice? Will I ever outgrow my uncertainty? Do I receive the love I give? 

She doesn’t ask, and I understand. Today, it doesn’t feel like her place. It won’t, not for a while.

She only smiles shyly and wonders, “isn’t it hard to have a job with tattoos?” 

I reply, “It works fine when you’re in charge.” 

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