Buried Layers of Life

When change comes with hard work, with time, or not at all.

The metaphor:

I spent this past week at my parents’ house for Christmas, surrounded by childhood memories. I bought a home-for-the-holidays package at a local gym and ran into some parts of my past that have changed, like fashion trends, and some that just lie dormant, waiting to be sought out or stumbled upon.

The story:

Have you seen The Muppets’ Christmas Carol? I’ll go much further than GQ’s niche assertion that it’s “the greatest puppet-based holiday film of all time.” I think it’s the best overall Christmas movie and the best of the Muppet movies. It’s even been called the best film adaptation of Dickens’ novel. There’s nothing like Gonzo narrating Scrooge’s makeover from miser to merrymaker, like Ye Olde Queer Eye for the soul.

This past Monday, I was listening to the movie soundtrack and wrapping presents, my Christmas tree full and my Advent Calendar almost empty. I giggled as Statler and Waldorf grumpily rattled their chains and I sang along with the zaftig Ghost of Christmas Present, who gets the best song. It wasn’t until Scrooge sings about his Christmas morning transformation that I realized I was identifying with him.

It hit me during the opening stanza:

“With a thankful heart, with an endless joy,
With a growing family, every girl and boy
Will be nephew and niece to me,
Will bring love, hope, and peace to me!”

I was wrapping a gift for one of my nephews, and I smiled at the parallel – then realized the depth of the spiritual investment I had in Scrooge’s self-improvement. When I was little, I saw Scrooge impersonally, a mean man whose eventual reform gives everyone else a happy ending. Now I was rooting for him as a fellow adult trying to turn over a new leaf, as a metaphor for my own potential. When did that change?

I thought about my new Scrooge solidarity again on Thursday, in child’s pose. I was at a fitness studio near my parents’ house, where I spent Christmas night. The sidewalks were too iced-over for running, and I hadn’t brought a yoga mat, so I did a little research and signed up for my first group workout class since before the pandemic. I found a spot in the back of the studio, where to my left, two women were whispering to each other, one seemingly a member who’d brought the other along. I registered them as around my age until I realized, no – they’re probably 27, which is the age I think I am until I see someone who’s actually that age.

I was that age 11 years ago, living in LA and walking to the One Down Dog yoga studio near my house. I dressed the same way then as I was dressed now, black Athleta leggings and a t-shirt. Back in 2014, that helped me blend in, but as I looked around surreptitiously in 2024, it seemed styles had changed. Almost all of the dozen other students appeared to be women in their twenties, and many wore monochromatic top-and-bottom workout sets, scrunchies holding back their hair.

Fashion trends used to feel inescapable, like the megaphones of the world were all pointed right at me. Now I have to observe them through study, like a wildlife enthusiast. Here is a young adult in their natural habitat! Note their short, wide jeans and thick, tall socks, met with admiration by their peers! I wondered how I looked to them – off trend? Or too old already to be relevant, the way adults used to blend together to my adolescent eyes?

I’d had the inverse questions 15 years ago, as the youngest participant in a DC step class. I remember slinging on my backpack to leave and hoping the other gym-goers could tell I was a young professional with a work-issued laptop in my bag, not a college student’s books. (In retrospect, I’m sure they couldn’t, and didn’t care.) Then as now, I watched myself in the walls of mirrors and wondered what the others saw.

Back then, I got very nervous when I didn’t understand the instructor. I’d crane my neck around to figure out what it meant to take chair pose, step up and over, do a clean and press. Now, in 2024, I found my yoga experience helpful, despite lying dormant for a decade. Unlike styles of denim, the pose names hadn’t changed: even certain progressions came right back. So did the endorphins I remember from past classes, the music vibrating through my mat and the instructor cheering us on.

I liked the class so much that I went back on Friday morning before driving home to the woods. In a 7:30am Bootcamp class, I was appreciating the perfect amount of Taylor Swift in the playlist when David Guetta’s new version of Forever Young came on. I rolled my eyes like I had at the updated versions of Fast Car, which in my mind, needs no rewrites, and isn’t it maybe too soon? Then I caught the “Bah! Humbug” flavor of my thoughts – maybe I was Scroogier than I thought. Sure, I’d lived long enough to collect some points of reference, but I didn’t exactly have the moral high ground on musical purity. When I heard Ray Charles’ “I Got A Woman,” sometime after college, I was surprised to hear the song echo Kanye’s “Gold Digger” – then realized it was the other way around.

During a water break, the instructor asked, “Is anyone doing anything fun for New Year’s?” He named a club he’d been hoping to go to – “But tickets are, like, $200!” I wanted to let them all know that house parties are the way to avoid the steep covers. I wanted to tell them staying up til midnight is overrated, though wearing something shimmery is worth it. Instead, I kept the memories of my twenties to myself, where they warmed me. It was soothing to feel them all there, like rubbing my thumb over the smooth dip in a worry stone.

After class, as I was walking to my car, I ran into a former high school classmate, home visiting his parents. He introduced me to his wife, and I shook her hand, smiling at the surreality of summarizing two decades of life in two minutes. My own Ghost of Christmas Past. I drove home playing back the memories of when we’d been good friends, remembering other friends from that time, too.

I wrote last week about the pain of leaving one place and group of people for another, and it seems like it should be devastating to remember that there are dozens of people I’ve known well that I’m not in touch with, day-to-day, or may not even see in a given decade. In that moment, though, it was comforting to feel them there, these buried layers of life, just waiting there to be activated if circumstances change.

In the meantime, I took a moment to wish them all a happy 2025 – and I wish the same to each of you. May Gonzo bless us, every one!

Thanks for reading! If something resonates, consider clicking the heart, replying with a public comment or private email, or forwarding to someone else.