Oh, but life is strange
Marin is a really peculiar place.
After work today I found myself killing time on the treadmill of the posh gym, I was underdressed, and under-botoxed. I found myself sandwiched between ladies of leisure, the and succulent, disaffected highschoolers, several benevolent geriatrics, and a smattering of independently wealthy day traders trying to outlift one another, and by God if it isn't a pissing contest. Who is prettiest, who is youngest, who has the most disposable income, my money is on grandpa. There is Emma huffing the slogging and panting through the last ten minutes of cardio, sweaty and disheveled, wishing for a solid, sludge-worthy cup of coffee and a half pack of cigarettes, and how is it possible that the sharp brunette twice my age with the trainer half my age can look better than I do at my age.
So I have an hour or so to kill before W.W.'s photography opening, and I linger in the mall that my gym anchors, and the sun is hanging in it's laconic Californian way, and the light is long and golden and sparkling on windshields and flashing fiery diamond facets, I am the pariah skulking along the perimeter, cigarette and coffee in hand, dodging the myriad, errant children, contemplating the inappropriateness of shorts and troubled by the surplus of panty lines. From my limited data collection, I posit that panty lines are some sort of obscure (a reclaiming of sorts?) badge of honor, meanwhile the pariah smoking and skulking on the perimeter is becoming apopletic at the sight of so many uneven "v" outlines of undergarments... It's just not pretty. Giggling inwardly at the remembrance of some lady in her gigantic panties, and hearing my inside demon rasp wetly in my ear, lord but those are some esspansive panties, and my outside self stubbed her toe whistling aww shucks, while donning the mask of innocence.
Incidently that should provide plenty of fodder for the poor souls who landed here after searching for granny panties... GRANNY PANTIES, MOIST, GET THEM HERE.
Weekend round up on almost Thursday.
Thursday last, dinner with mere & pere Emma at Cortez: three words, Hamachi Croque Madame, also, if you happen to be hanging out with my father, I would advise you to leave off of politics, religion, and the environment unless you are want to traumatize your waitperson with a diatribe, keerist, I thought I was bad.
Friday last: T and I drinking in an unknown establishment deep in the Mission, named for an English poet and oddly frequented by frenchmen (not known at the time) are accosted by a would-be novelist with a seemingly severe case of ADD and remarkable persistence, Most Stoic Frenchman S. rescues us and sends us blithely on our way.
And our way is a, well it's a long story and the details are foggy and require backstory. But it was something like this, a club in the no man's land of defunct factories and Hunter's Point, long hair on men, the likes of which not seen since 1989, falling down girls and aerosol hairspray, a whole lotta posturing from fallen rock stars turned real estate agents cashing in on the tail end, for fuck's sake it can't get worse can it, of the eighties revival.
Saturday morning last: My brain hurts.
I rise to the chirping of my cell, I am to meet 7 fourteen girls in search of hundred dollar dresses for eighth grade graduation. One of their mother's is my highschool girlfriend, her kid is turning fifteen. I had so much fun. They univerally think that I am the fucking rockingest thing since motherfucking carb free wine. I guess when you are an almost 34 year old single and desperately horny woman living in a postage stamp apartment but you're wearing the stamps of last night's party and a matching hang-over and you spent your last paycheck on this season's purse, purposefully forgetting this month's rent and you wore heels to breakfast and have four shades of lipstick/gloss in your purse, and you curse like a sailor (so does their mother) but it sounds different coming out of my mouth, they think my address on a much heralded corner is the cat's meow, they think I am really, righteously fucking cool. And I must admit, I felt bolstered, just a little... that is until all the dresses that I chose were roundly derided. Here are these lovely, willowy young limbs calling not for demure per se, but for classic, for classic subversion. For irony. But no, they all want to dress like hookers... How exactly like me at fourteen. And L. and I had a long laugh, they have brought back all of the poufs and ruffles that we bought wholesale at their age, except now the poufs are better constructed and the price of the dressed has risen with inflation. And I felt old, but I didn't feel old, I felt glad, I marveled at those young slouchy bodies in mismatched tube socks and the same markered checked vans that their mothers wore.
Is that what it means to come full circle.
Saturday evening last: those girls wore my shit out. I stumbled to dinner with my parents, eyes half shut. We ate Iraqi. It was excellent, though the plateware was very much early Versacci, which was fitting given my day and my unrelenting hangover.
Mother's Day: Z and I go to the cinema, eat Japanese, troll through bookstores. The wind blows, howls by moments, rain falls, hard and pacific, we walk, I don't open my umbrella, and the drops are fat and staccato, and form perfect weatherproofed rivulets that trickle from his shoulders to his cuffs, and dams his beard.
And those of you following the story of the crush that would not go the way of the dodo, and then went the way of the dodo, and then was nutured by a growing and profound friendship was transfigured into it's own thick and lush crocus bulb. And we push though the dirt and our sturdy petals unfurl, and I am delighted to have fallen in love, fallen in deep platonic love with my friend. It's like a first blush minus the flush, and in my hunger for love, it's possibly very much misguided but it shines in my restless heart like a beacon and I am so pleased to know that I can love my good friends without equivocation, all of my good friends, along with all of the loves gone from me, and none of that can hinder me from finding the perfect, guileless 27 year old, with the sing song washboard abs in search of a sentimental education.
Marin is a really peculiar place.
After work today I found myself killing time on the treadmill of the posh gym, I was underdressed, and under-botoxed. I found myself sandwiched between ladies of leisure, the and succulent, disaffected highschoolers, several benevolent geriatrics, and a smattering of independently wealthy day traders trying to outlift one another, and by God if it isn't a pissing contest. Who is prettiest, who is youngest, who has the most disposable income, my money is on grandpa. There is Emma huffing the slogging and panting through the last ten minutes of cardio, sweaty and disheveled, wishing for a solid, sludge-worthy cup of coffee and a half pack of cigarettes, and how is it possible that the sharp brunette twice my age with the trainer half my age can look better than I do at my age.
So I have an hour or so to kill before W.W.'s photography opening, and I linger in the mall that my gym anchors, and the sun is hanging in it's laconic Californian way, and the light is long and golden and sparkling on windshields and flashing fiery diamond facets, I am the pariah skulking along the perimeter, cigarette and coffee in hand, dodging the myriad, errant children, contemplating the inappropriateness of shorts and troubled by the surplus of panty lines. From my limited data collection, I posit that panty lines are some sort of obscure (a reclaiming of sorts?) badge of honor, meanwhile the pariah smoking and skulking on the perimeter is becoming apopletic at the sight of so many uneven "v" outlines of undergarments... It's just not pretty. Giggling inwardly at the remembrance of some lady in her gigantic panties, and hearing my inside demon rasp wetly in my ear, lord but those are some esspansive panties, and my outside self stubbed her toe whistling aww shucks, while donning the mask of innocence.
Incidently that should provide plenty of fodder for the poor souls who landed here after searching for granny panties... GRANNY PANTIES, MOIST, GET THEM HERE.
Weekend round up on almost Thursday.
Thursday last, dinner with mere & pere Emma at Cortez: three words, Hamachi Croque Madame, also, if you happen to be hanging out with my father, I would advise you to leave off of politics, religion, and the environment unless you are want to traumatize your waitperson with a diatribe, keerist, I thought I was bad.
Friday last: T and I drinking in an unknown establishment deep in the Mission, named for an English poet and oddly frequented by frenchmen (not known at the time) are accosted by a would-be novelist with a seemingly severe case of ADD and remarkable persistence, Most Stoic Frenchman S. rescues us and sends us blithely on our way.
And our way is a, well it's a long story and the details are foggy and require backstory. But it was something like this, a club in the no man's land of defunct factories and Hunter's Point, long hair on men, the likes of which not seen since 1989, falling down girls and aerosol hairspray, a whole lotta posturing from fallen rock stars turned real estate agents cashing in on the tail end, for fuck's sake it can't get worse can it, of the eighties revival.
Saturday morning last: My brain hurts.
I rise to the chirping of my cell, I am to meet 7 fourteen girls in search of hundred dollar dresses for eighth grade graduation. One of their mother's is my highschool girlfriend, her kid is turning fifteen. I had so much fun. They univerally think that I am the fucking rockingest thing since motherfucking carb free wine. I guess when you are an almost 34 year old single and desperately horny woman living in a postage stamp apartment but you're wearing the stamps of last night's party and a matching hang-over and you spent your last paycheck on this season's purse, purposefully forgetting this month's rent and you wore heels to breakfast and have four shades of lipstick/gloss in your purse, and you curse like a sailor (so does their mother) but it sounds different coming out of my mouth, they think my address on a much heralded corner is the cat's meow, they think I am really, righteously fucking cool. And I must admit, I felt bolstered, just a little... that is until all the dresses that I chose were roundly derided. Here are these lovely, willowy young limbs calling not for demure per se, but for classic, for classic subversion. For irony. But no, they all want to dress like hookers... How exactly like me at fourteen. And L. and I had a long laugh, they have brought back all of the poufs and ruffles that we bought wholesale at their age, except now the poufs are better constructed and the price of the dressed has risen with inflation. And I felt old, but I didn't feel old, I felt glad, I marveled at those young slouchy bodies in mismatched tube socks and the same markered checked vans that their mothers wore.
Is that what it means to come full circle.
Saturday evening last: those girls wore my shit out. I stumbled to dinner with my parents, eyes half shut. We ate Iraqi. It was excellent, though the plateware was very much early Versacci, which was fitting given my day and my unrelenting hangover.
Mother's Day: Z and I go to the cinema, eat Japanese, troll through bookstores. The wind blows, howls by moments, rain falls, hard and pacific, we walk, I don't open my umbrella, and the drops are fat and staccato, and form perfect weatherproofed rivulets that trickle from his shoulders to his cuffs, and dams his beard.
And those of you following the story of the crush that would not go the way of the dodo, and then went the way of the dodo, and then was nutured by a growing and profound friendship was transfigured into it's own thick and lush crocus bulb. And we push though the dirt and our sturdy petals unfurl, and I am delighted to have fallen in love, fallen in deep platonic love with my friend. It's like a first blush minus the flush, and in my hunger for love, it's possibly very much misguided but it shines in my restless heart like a beacon and I am so pleased to know that I can love my good friends without equivocation, all of my good friends, along with all of the loves gone from me, and none of that can hinder me from finding the perfect, guileless 27 year old, with the sing song washboard abs in search of a sentimental education.
posted by emma at
10:22 PM
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