I FORGOT THAT I REMEMBERED

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, wondering if I can still pull off eyeliner, I realized I'd morphed into full-on Sporty Spice.

Somewhere between opening two studios, teaching classes, answering emails, moving reformers, and chasing around a small child, I've fully committed to a lifestyle in which 95% of my wardrobe contains lycra. If I have to put on real pants now, there's an adjustment period where I feel like a toddler in church clothes.

I had two projects open last week within a few days of each other: a play at Lincoln Center and a film at Tribeca. Both required me to brush the dust off my fancy dresses and a part of my life that I don't spend much time in anymore.

I pondered my reflection little longer than usual. This version of me wasn’t exactly foreign. Just… lying dormant.

The events themselves felt familiar too. The crowds, the conversations, the nervous energy before people see something they've spent years working on finally come together. Standing around with a drink in your hand making small talk while trying to figure out whether you worked with someone fourteen hours a day over the course of three months in 2017, or if you just think you know them because they’re famous.

I got back on my bike yesterday, for the first time since last fall. The weather was perfect - the kind of day that makes us remember why we tolerate New York winters. Every restaurant seemed to have spilled onto the sidewalk, bars leaking boisterous Knicks fans from every crevice.

I hadn't ridden in months. Long enough that I felt juust a little uncertain climbing on. I swerved into the curb and almost fell when the mail truck came too close. I spent the first block or two certain I'd forgotten how to ride, but by the time I rounded the corner, I had found my balance and my body reminded me that she had this covered.

As they say, you never forget how to ride a bike. But what actually happened was: I forgot that I remembered.

I think we spend a lot of time worrying that we've somehow lost parts of ourselves. I was convinced that the me who spends her evenings at openings and the me who spends her days in leggings had become two different people. I had to ease into it and let that night be the night when 2 become 1. 

We assume that a part of our life is behind us just because we haven't visited it lately. But maybe those parts don't disappear as quickly as we think they do.

Maybe they're a little more like riding a bike - wobbly at first, then you dodge the proverbial mail truck and wonder why you were ever worried in the first place.

If you're lucky, you remember that you've been here before.

At The Pearl, we see this all the time. Someone returns to class after months away, convinced they're starting over. More often than not, they discover that their body remembers more than they think.