Monday, October 18, 2010
Kick Me, I'm Awake
Saturday in the still sunny city. Every sunny moment in Seattle, towards the middle of October, is like a perfect moment in the arms of a gorgeous man, your cheek nestled onto on his broad, fleece-vested chest. He's stroking your perfectly straight, Brazilian-blown out hair with a calloused hand and every now and then he kisses you on the head, absentmindedly. But beneath that heartbreakingly perfect exterior, he's a fickle, unreliable jerk-off and you know it. But he's made it abundantly, shamelessly clear that at any moment he will run off and leave you. For a long, long time. For six months even. Because the rumors are very, very true: Seattle really is a grey, wet, sunless, miserable city for the majority of the year, and that time of year is starting....any....day....now.....
Saturday morning did not come easy for me. Seth had to be driven off in Wallingford at like, 7 am, (I wasn't aware the city was even turned on at 7am on a Saturday.) So I brought him to the house of his brother. Ben. Ben is also a good friend. He's also the worst person I've ever dated. Ever. Sorry, man, but you know it's true.
I'm horrible, horrible, just a terrible person in the mornings. In my defense, it's only because I feel so sad, so miserable, so nauseatingly unhappy about leaving my warm nest of blankets and dreams and joining the cold, alienating, soul stifling parade of life that on most mornings I'd rather die than get up. I'm serious. And I feel this way even in the very best of circumstances. The only way for someone to successfully rouse me is if they climb on top of my bed and kick me and kick me and kick me until I'm on the floor, and bruised.
It's less than ideal.
People always used to tell me, in this gross smarmy way that I hated, "Oh, just wait till you get a dog. My dog wakes me up at 6:00am every day." Eat it, smarmsters. I found Hometeam, my soul-dog, and it's impossible to wake her up before 11:00am. You could stand above her, bang on a pot with a rawhide bone and scream "BIG STEAK! BIG STEAK! BIG STEAK! ALL YOURS" And I swear to god she'll bury herself deeper into the comforter and punish you for the disturbance by being frosty all day. My god, she's an angel of a dog.
Seth, still scarred from having to wake me, was made uncomfortable by my sudden mood shift. "Um, yeah- you know what? You can just drop me off here-"
"Here- anywhere. Anywhere is fine just let me out."
I turned the car around, headed back to my house whistling, fell into bed and slept till noon. The only reason I got up at all was because I had made plans with Kendra to have breakfast in capitol hill. Which of course I just steamrolled right through. But, having known me since I was eight, Kendra knew that 'breakfast' for me means 'lunch' for most people.
And to you, authentic and well meaning outdoors person, I say, hey, I used to be just like you. I climbed there rarely and only after much complaining. Head down, headphones glued to my ears, loathe to be part of the spectacle. But then- something happened. What was it? I don't know. What prompted that first ambitious, self confident swimmy thing to try and slither out of the primordial soup and onto the shore? I evolved. One day I just whipped off my Regulatory 1 Long sleeve Patagonia Baselayer and bared the tight Prana halter beneath. I threw my hair into a suitably messy pony tail and tackled that V-2 like it was a V-12. Then I stood back, scrunched my face up into a thoughtful expression, put my hands in front of my face as if visualizing how to overcome the crux, and said something to myself -but audible- about 'pump' and 'slope' and 'sweet.' The boys and girls around me glanced my way, gave me a quick once-over, then nodded their appreciation.
And just like that, I crossed over.
It's not about being the most serious climber or the prettiest climber. It's about pretending to be those things.
First stop: Emmer and Rye on Queen Anne. Monday night. Stay tuned. I hope you had a great weekend.