I read in the New York Times this week that nostalgia is a form of depression. I had never thought of it that way. I always enjoyed thinking of the past. Then I realized that the reason I enjoy thinking of the times when I was younger is that I still feel that way inside.

Today, I listened to a song from the days when I was footloose and fancy free. I pictured myself then, and compared the former me to the me that I am now, and I started to sag.

I remembered when my legs seemed endless, and wearing short shorts was a given. I thought about the nights when I stayed up with my friends, eating chocolate donuts by the dozens, never once considering calories. I remembered driving around town, past boys’ houses, hoping to catch sight of one. I remembered when I knew how to dance and didn’t know how to cook.

I remembered chasing after toddlers, never once getting tired. Being able to find just the right puzzle piece at the same time I folded laundry. Making endless lunches before getting in the car for the commute to an office where I wore suits and pearls.

I remembered walking on the beach in a very small bathing suit, and not having to suck my stomach in. Having skin so young that makeup was like gilding the lily. I remembered when size 10 was a bit too roomy, and when I wore mini-skirts without a second thought.

I remembered parties with other young marrieds, when nobody had to get a babysitter or be home at a specific time. When getting three hours of sleep a night was voluntary.

I thought about the way my husband looked when I met him—and how cute he was with his skinny legs and head of blonde hair. I remember being charmed by his jokes and feeling lucky to be thinner than he.

I remember having parents.

Good grief. I am going to cancel my subscription to the Times.

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