Friday, June 23, 2006

deeper shade of soul

After the BART rant of yesterday morning, I decided, for the sake of my sanity, to take the company shuttle home. Even though it only stops in one place in the city, given my recent enthusiasm for walking everywhere, I felt the ensuing thirty minute walk would suit me just fine. So, I stood outside on the curb waiting for the shuttle, in the unusually still, late afternoon.

I was lost in my thoughts when a Benz pulled up in front of me. Inside was a recently acquired GBF of mine. He rolled a window down, and asked, in mock horror, "Are you actually taking public transportation home?" Such good-natured ribbing is a mark of any friend of mine. I nodded, and was about to turn back to my reverie, when he demanded that I get in the car.

For a moment, I was reminded of a million mornings of my youth, waiting for the bus to school. But it was different, because, this time, I was the jerk jumping into a cool kid's car. As we zoomed off, I was tempted to poke my head out the window and call out, "See you, suckers!" But thankfully, having been the one left behind on so many other occasions, I had the sense to have a little restraint.

The new GBF was supposed to meet some friends for dinner, but the amazing weather and my powers of harassment combined to coax him into stopping for a drink with me first. We picked out a lovely little French place, but the host informed me that the liquor license required that we order food. I shrugged, and we found ourselves the perfect table that allowed for people watching and lounging.

We both ordered bowls of fruit and cocktails. I guess it was dessert before dinner, but it felt more like getting exactly what you want exactly when you want it. It felt perfectly decadent. My drink was a concoction of fresh blackberry puree, fresh crushed mint, Grey Goose (big surprise) and a splash of champagne. After one sip, I was intoxicated, but it had nothing to do with the alcohol content.

As we compared and contrasted our previous relationship follies, I felt every hint of stress leaving my being. Usually, talking about baggage is about as enjoyable as getting a root canal. But talking about it then, with a purple drink in one hand, a spoonful of strawberries in the other, I was pleasantly bemused. I've been finding myself increasingly bemused with myself- like I am experiencing my own life vicariously, if that makes any sense. I look back and think, how on earth did you get yourself into that mess, and in the next moment, I have shrugged it off and moved on to make some other grave error. I know that this sort of passive living can be dangerous. But for someone who usually overanalyzes things to the point of microscopy, it has been a welcome change.

After the drink, we parted. I was too hyper or lazy to go all the way home, so instead, I barged in on the broseph. He was having a small barbecue. When I got there, I had to reckon with the OG, the original GBF, JP. For at least a week now, I have known that I need to make amends with JP, but have avoided it. I kind of fell off the face of the earth, and the timing coincided with his birthday. What is problematic but also undeniably charming about JP is that all my excuses are no good with him. He does not understand, Oh, JP, I was so swamped with all this sh*t with The Goal. While most friends are still pissed when I lay that on them, they grin and bear it. Not so with JP, which is fair, because it's important, occasionally, to have someone in your life that puts things in perspective.

All my fears were unwarranted. After a few minutes of "No, shut up, I don't talk to you!" and "You are e-stupid. You are e-stupidita!", he was back to being my OG. The presence of ample amounts of PBR and the current good standing of Brazil in the World Cup helped matters considerably, I think.

So, for all my complaining yesterday, it turned out to be a fantastic, swoonworthy evening. This morning, I spared the air again, but this time, I had adjusted my expectations considerably. Besides, in all the rage of yesterday, I forgot an important detail- hey, I loathe my work. So, showing up late? Not such a tragedy. What's more is this: when you are bound to public transportation for your commute, you cannot work late, because the last shuttle leaves at 6. And that is way more glass half full than I've been in recent memory.

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