Twenty

(The world was younger than today)

Harlan is twenty. He says he may stay in Colorado or may go somewhere else. He doesn't know. He talks about running ultras. He is unconcerned about the future. As he should be. He's twenty.

I feel a pang of envy. I remember this. I remember setting out for a long run with every belief that my body would respond. No: will my knee feel weird this time? No: better slow down on these rocks! Just go. Believe you can do it.

I remember too, that untethered feeling. I could go anywhere! And I did, moving every six months for low paying but incredible jobs in the national parks. Looking at application forms: should I put down Hawaii Volcanoes? Sequoia/Kings? And once there, the adventure of meeting new kindred spirits. Of saying yes, let's drive to Mexico without a plan! Let's ask Tom the outfitter if we can go into the ranch hot springs after dark! Take canoes across the wildlife refuge to find the fabled silver palms! Take a floatplane across the wild island to sit in wild hot springs next to a waterfall.

So: twenty. I also wouldn't want to be back there, full of confidence in my athletic ability but deeply not so in other parts of my life. Worried about food, about what other people thought. I didn't eat enough, I ran too much, I chose people who didn’t deserve me. But otherwise? Twenty was amazing.

How old would you say you were if you didn't know the truth, if there were no mirrors, no birth certificates, no memories? I wouldn't say twenty, but I wouldn't say my current age either. I would love a world where age didn't matter, where people my age either become invisible or are given backhanded compliments like “I hope I can do half of what you do when I'm your age.” (Way to remind me I'm much older. Thanks?)

But I digress. Twenty. I wasn't a kid who stayed home well past my expiration date. I was cobbling together seasons of winter and summer work, driving across country chewing Big Red gum until my tongue burned. Pulling into a new park and bunkhouse, a new mountain range. State parks until college graduation and then out into the world.

Of course, this doesn't mean that my twenty was better than yours. My choices meant that I was poor for a long time, and even now feel financial scarcity compared to others. I didn't see my parents enough, and didn't realize the true cost until they were gone. Friendships were hard to maintain on the road. It wasn't perfect. It never is.

Still, I'm glad I did it that way. I got paid to kayak! To hike! I was in excellent shape from my job; I didn't need a gym. The stress wasn't related to cubicle life or climbing a ladder. Stress was: will I get over that pass before lightning hits? Or, uh oh, there's a bear.

Twenty. The last time I saw my mom, she told me I had so much time left. I'm not so sure about that. Twenty felt like that, though. Like you could screw up royally and there was so much time to turn things around. If you weren't feeling a job or a place, you could move. Slipping away, cutting ties, was so easy.

“Don't get married young,” I told Harlan, and instantly regretted it. After all, if you find your person at twenty, how lucky are you? What I meant was: hold on to twenty. It goes so fast. That invincible feeling. The endless possibility. I miss it. I know it. And sometimes, it comes back. On a trail, on a run when everything aligns: terrain, knees, speed. I cherish those moments of twenty, at the age I am now.

How old would you think you were, if you didn't know?

22, in the Florida swamp. All I could see were my flaws. Now I think: oh honey. You had no idea.

Also check out My books