Ferry Building Rain Day?

My rain boots have New York City subway line letters and numbers on them; bright circles all colors of the rainbow dotting black rubber shields from the downpour that started off the day. As I walked from the parking garage on Howard and Beale Streets toward the Ferry Building, I spotted a wonderful former co-worker whose life has been re-circling mine for a few months as I've segued into my new job. He and his partner were making fun of a woman traipsing between rain drops in black stiletto rocker heels. "Are you making fun of that poor woman's terrible shoe choice?" I called out and laughed. After briefly getting caught up and hearing the bell tower chiming noon, I turned back toward the Ferry Building where old friends from the same former employer were waiting for me to brunch, one from far out of town, the other from across the bridge.

It had been six years since I'd seen the friend from Germany but, we slipped back into laughter as easily as we'd gotten out of the habit of emailing every so often. It was just what I needed. We reminisced about the big conference we helped make happen back in 2005 including tales of a certain dingy blond from Appalachia who accused one friend of stealing her purse and charging $2 on her credit card; a certain Swede who made the same friend's heart beat faster; and drunken comments about our crazy boss and her "knock-off Prada boots". We talked about the summer that we spent together, driving back and forth from Sonoma County and the Bay Area, drinking wine and staring at a vineyard from a hot tub surrounded by oak trees. Guffaws filled our corner of Market Bar as we slid "quality eggs" from Petaluma and delicious bacon and fries down our gullets.

Eventually, the sun burst from behind puffy gray clouds, after we talked about online dating, kids, husbands, and children's "fight club" in Oakland. The time slipped away faster than I was ready for. And, eventually the mom of the bunch felt obligated to return to her sick husband and relieve him from child-care duty. It's amazing how some people appear in our lives and stay there, steady, for years. Even when we can't visit or don't talk regularly. One of my favorite things to do lately has been spending time visiting and talking with friends, old and new. I'm finding that I actually enjoy spending time with the people I know which hasn't always been the case. It feels really good...

Home Work Out

Every time I see my Grinberg method practitioner, she suggests that I start doing martial arts to keep my cortisol-producing stress at bay. She asks if I'm still doing yoga and acupuncture to ensure that my adrenal glands get a rest every so often. And, every time I go to my endocrinologist, she tells me to make sure that I'm doing plenty of physical activity to keep my bones and hormones healthy. One of the great things about my apartment is that I have a good sized, wood-floored living room. And, with Netflix streaming video and Hulu, I have found a great way to supplement the periodic walks I talk with physical activity in the comfort and safety of my own home.

Last weekend I woke up and wanted to calm my body down so, I tuned into an hour long Yoga Zone session. Not having to stretch into and hold contortions that my body can't do in front of a room full of sweating strangers is lovely. My glutes and hamstrings are incredibly tight and I can hardly do a forward bend beyond a right angle. With yoga in my living room, I can unabashedly suck at bending over. The instructors on Yoga Zone also tell me exactly how to correctly position myself which, in classes at a studio, I either don't hear because I'm so wrapped up in embarrassment or doesn't happen because everyone else in the class is a total yogi. The instructor pushes my hips forward or torso into a twist but, often won't explicitly tell me to ensure that my pinky toe is pushed into the floor when I'm in warrior pose. And of course, the cost of going to a yoga studio and requirement to go at specific times both make me cranky. Yoga in my living room can happen anytime I feel like it and I don't have to pay a dime.

Tonight, after a day of heady discussion and planning, I needed an outlet that would tire me out and help me let off steam. I tuned into 10 minute kickboxing with my favorite Aussie trainer. I punched and kicked and worked out for a good solid 20 minutes. It's 9:08pm and my eyes can hardly stay open. And by tomorrow I'll have that lovely muscle ache in my legs and arms and may not be able to comfortably crouch. But, it will hurt so good. The first time I kickboxed in my living room was thirty minutes of continuous hilarity. My feet couldn't seem to pivot at the same time that my arm was jabbing left or right and I certainly couldn't jab with both arms, pivot on the left, swing right and end with a quick left upper cut. But it didn't matter. Because I was alone.

Strawberry Hill

Today I set off for Stow Lake from the 19th Avenue entrance to Golden Gate Park listening to Start Something That Matters on my iPod. My goal was to walk for at least forty minutes, break a mild sweat, and enjoy the sun (which quickly slid behind a shield of cloud-cover). Since I've moved closer to Stow Lake, I've spent many a morning or afternoon meandering through the island trails or up and down the stairs near the waterfall but, I'm always surprised by something new that I've never seen before. This walk was no different. Unfortunately, I left my camera at home as well as my cell-phone so, there aren't any visuals to enjoy. But, as I made a loop around the back end of the park nearing the boat house, a man knelt near the shore of the lake. About two feet away from the lake-edge, on a rocky outcropping, there were three turtles sunning and just beyond, a duck. They seemed to be oblivious to the growing crowd on the nearby bank.

Shortly after, I climbed the rough wooden stairs just above one of the two bridges that lead onto the island in the middle of the lake. I streaked past some bicyclists and other visitors enjoying a relaxing stroll. Instead of reaching the top of the falls and turning around, I decided to follow the other path around the hill-top reservoir and ended up at Strawberry Hill. How is it possible that I never walked up there before? I wondered. Apparently, "hill-topping" is a common butterfly behavior, when they "head for the hills" and flit from pollen-producer to pollen-producer while somehow sensing other butterfly pheromones, if I'm remembering the signage correctly. There weren't any butterflies as the clouds continued to gather but the views of the Sunset, the Richmond, and the Golden Gate Bridge from behind the great green trees were lovely.

As I wandered back down the dirt path, a tourist was viewing a rock nestled in the hill with the words Huntington Falls carved into it. How have I never seen that? I balked, trying to remember how many times I've walked above the falls that I did not know had a name. Me and Stow Lake go way back. We may have become acquainted for the first time as I slogged through at a medium paced, sweaty jog at age 16 or so, as I "ran" a long-distance race through Golden Gate Park. More than likely, I wasn't paying attention to anything but my self-conscious body, the boy I had a crush on, and how out of breath I was. After I moved to San Francisco, I started walking and running again, eventually, and in the process re-introduced myself to Stow Lake. Like an old and evolving friend, it continues to show me new sides every visit.

Beast and the Hare

At the start of the evening, as I sat captivated by the Menlo Park Venture Capitalist scene wending its way through the "living room" of Madera and onto its massive and crowded patio, I could not have guessed that by the end of the night I would be sharing beignets and dreams with strangers. In Menlo Park, I slammed my wine as quickly as I could as I stared at a woman looking as uncomfortable as I felt and tried, unsuccessfully, to carry on a conversation unrelated to work with some co-worker friends.

One of our group of three had a date so, we shoved delicious pesto-slathered sliders in our gobs and exited to the sun-drenched, hill-surrounded parking lot filled with BMW's, Mercedes, Jaguars and a Maserati. Not wanting to just go home, the evening progressed to a two-single-lady affair and we agreed to meet for dinner back in San Francisco, our native land.

We, being somewhat fashion-minded and hip to the foodie scene, opted for a communal table at Beast and the Hare in the Mission. My friend is an outgoing sort so we made fast friends with a Ryan Reynolds look-alike and his tattooed comrade. Soon, I was dipping my feta cheese covered fork into his corn pancake and we were scooping our whiskey chicken liver pate onto sliced toast for he and his friend to taste (it was delicious).

After their departure, we shared stories of our day jobs with a new middle-aged Irish friend and her Scottish SFPD husband. The mother of at least two told us of her love of gay men and her dreams of becoming a nanny caring for disadvantaged families with children in the hospital. As she shared the last of her beignets with us, we laughed, the tinkle of silverware on plates crowded around us, and the cars sped by outside on Guerrero. As my friend and I parted ways shortly thereafter, she aptly called out, "Good Friday night!"