Frankly my dear...

I was miraculously not hung over when I woke up on Saturday morning but 7:00am was nonetheless surprising and unwelcome.  I considered combing my hair and putting on makeup but when I looked in the mirror, I saw Rhett Butler staring back at me.  All of the sudden, the words “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn” became my mantra for the weekend.  

I fist-pumped the Lyft driver half-heartedly hoping that he would just let me stare out the window, but the round and jovial Arab man, like my mother, seemed to consider early morning drives to the airport prime time for bonding.  

“Where are you headed?”

“Kansas City,” I said in a quiet voice to indicate my predisposition to introversion.  He was undeterred.

“Oh wow!  Brrr!  What are you going to Kansas for?”

I was too tired point out his geographical error.  “I have a conference for work and also visiting a friend in town.”

By the time we arrived at SFO, the man had ascertained enough major bullet points of my life story to write my online dating profile and, as the half of my brain that was not participating in the conversation performed some checklisting, I had realized that I, in my 7:00am stupor, had forgotten to pack my one clean dress shirt, hair dryer, scarf and gloves.

Fortunately, Missouri was not as apocalyptically cold as I feared it would be.  Unfortunately, the AirBnB apartment was not as luxurious as I hoped it would be (no laundry, no hair dryer).  And interestingly, Kansas City was not the hustling metropolis I remembered it being.  I was supposedly in the heart of downtown and there was not a soul in sight nor a market, grocery store, or even a Walgreens within reasonable walking distance where I could buy the toothbrush and deodorant I had also forgotten (apparently the only things I remembered were my running shoes and the bag of custom-branded stress balls to hand out at the conference).  Standing on the sidewalk watching the midwestern wind rustle naked aspens, I shrugged my shoulders and thought of Rhett’s words...

That night I went out for burgers with my coworker and a friend, whose personalities are about as similar as a cucumber and a chili pepper.   Sitting between them at the restaurant, I realized the combination actually made for pleasant dinner table dynamics -- one literally screaming to accentuate especially interesting parts of a gushing stream of stories while the other piped in with periodic follow up questions and genuine laughs.  Everyone was enjoying themselves so thoroughly that, even though the meal had been my fourth that day, far be it from me to rain on anyone’s dessert parade.  Who gives a damn?  Let us eat cake!  As the three of us devoured a “Chocolate Bag” -- a $14 Kansas City delicacy filled with cream and berries -- I swallowed my guilt (and slight nausea, at that point) with an internal commitment to 100% healthy foods for the next 24 hours.   

But after a long morning run followed by a series of unplanned errands causing us to miss the first three quarters of the 49ers game, the fruit and granola bars were defenseless against my rising irritability.  I could feel the bristly fur growing on my knuckles.  By 2:00pm, it came down to a lupine transformation or the sweet potato fries.  There’s no bad mood a little grease dipped in barbecue sauce can’t subdue.  Screw it.  Rhett wouldn’t give a damn.  Plus, if I was going to be schmoozing with prospective clients all evening, I would need all the energy I could get.  

At the conference, we stood at a booth handing out wine and chocolate and stress balls to people in blazers and buttoned shirts.  I looked around me and saw a shimmery fog dissipate to reveal the futility of everything.  I made a silent promise to never grow up to be one of the people in that room.  I tried shielding myself from the reality that I already was one of the people in that room with another dose of my weekend’s apathy streak.  I didn’t really care about any of it.  That makes me better than them, right?  All the people, bustling around in their Marshalls khakis with their leather portfolios and little metal business card holders, they are below me because they take serious pride in the “PRESENTER” and “VOLUNTEER” and “FIRST-TIMER” ribbons stacked in a self-adhering rainbow below their attendee badges.  They wear those lanyards like Olympic gold medals.  I do not stoop so low as to take an interest in the keynote address.  I do not attend any educational sessions. I suppose I don’t abstain from the free breakfast buffet with the giant shiny platters of scrambled eggs and mini croissants, but I certainly don’t show up early to be first in line.  I, at the very least, acknowledge that this event is largely irrelevant to anyone outside the room.  I am at least aware that these smiles and handshakes and Grand Prize Drawings! may as well be featured on a Truman Show that we are watching about ourselves.  

So long as I withheld my damn-giving and maintained a layer of cynicism under my own Marshalls sweater, I was immune to my own mockery.

“Here is your invitation to the After Hours VIP party in Suite 32 on the 18th floor,” the dyed-blonde woman with the badge “Ashley, Event Coordinator” said to me with a wink.  I thanked her in a “Who, me?” flattered voice but, once she was out of earshot, I turned to my coworker with a sarcastic “Oooo!”   We started clearing(/eating) the leftover chocolates and putting away the stress balls and our “Enter Your Business Card For A Chance To Win!” bag from the table and my friend asked, “So what do you guys want to do now?”  It was still early and we’d already eaten plenty of free orderves...

Up to the 18th floor we went.  Of the wine and cheese we partook.  Yuck and guffaw with the pot-bellied midwestern conference-goers we did.  Not a single damn did we give.  (And I was really beginning to appreciate the adaptability of my new philosophy.)

For our last dinner, after days of fried and saucy indulgences, we went to a vegan place called Cafe Gratitude.  Each menu item was a sentence written in the first person.  I ordered the “I Am Fortified” with a side of “I Am Humble” and we spent the rest of the meal making fun of hippies.  But--perhaps it was the quinoa or the warm lighting or the flower and sunshine wall murals--but I actually walked out of the restaurant feeling sincerely grateful.  The lack of animal byproducts had magically rid me of my Rhett Butler syndrome and I found myself genuinely caring about and feeling glad for all the good things in my life.   

I was grateful for my friend who spent the weekend driving us all around Kansas City (Who knew that request-by-app-taxis don’t exist in Missouri?***).  I was grateful for the infinite patience and optimism of my coworker.  And when I landed back home to a 65-degree sapphire sky San Francisco day, I thanked all the stars and moons and vegetarian gods that I live in California.

And I’m grateful for Lyft drivers.  They are so friendly.

***NOTE.  Announcement for all hipsters travelling to the midwest: Sitting shotgun and fist-pumping the driver is not appropriate in normal taxis.  Such behavior can and likely will lead to awkward situations you will regret.

Graduation from 2013

Every year when my brother and I were little, my parents and uncles marked our heights on the wall at my grandma’s house.  I miss that.  I’ve realized most of my New Years resolutions these days are some variation of that ritual -- I tell myself I’m going to start filling out annual surveys about my thoughts on life or take a picture every day for a year or write a letter to my future self or keep a video diary… anything to keep track, to be able to get to the end of a year and say, “Look!  I’m bigger now!”  I have yet to complete any of these projects successfully, but I almost always end up throwing myself a therapy party this time of year to sit down and ask myself all the questions I used to roll my eyes at when my mom would ask me on my birthdays.  (“What was your proudest accomplishment this year?  Happiest memory?  Biggest regret?”)  

After a little calendar and photo album reminiscing, I’ve concluded that 2013, definitively, happened and that it was, on the whole, a good year.  I broke my personal record for number of street tacos consumed in a ten day period, I learned how to use a power drill and I swam in bioluminescent water.  I relived an entire 13-month relationship in one weekend when my ex came to visit and concluded that breaking up was, in fact, the right decision.  I traveled to Atlanta, Toronto, Baltimore, Chicago, Portland, San Antonio, Bend and Austin and concluded that San Francisco is, in fact, the best city in the US.  My best friend was accepted to an ivy league medical school, my teammates got married in a Redwood grove, and a person of unspecified relation to me had the cops called on him for pooping in the woods.  It was awesome.

Also friends’ hearts got broken, mom’s heart got surgery, and things got stolen (two laptops, two bikes and a wallet, but who’s counting?).  My friend Virginia got deported to Colombia after accidentally setting her host family’s house on fire and my friend Brandon “Collins” turned out to be a criminal with a stolen identity.  There were a few long nights enduring the view of spinning tiles on bathroom floors and a few long weeks enduring a knee injury and runninglessness.

But at the end of the year, I’ve certainly collected a few extra bullet points on my life resume.

Things I learned about life in 2013:

• Almost everything tastes better when chopped up in a massive bowl of spinach with greek yogurt, lemon, salt and a little balsamic.  That may sound weirdly healthy, but it’s actually just a sneaky way to take more bites out of something that tastes good.  (e.g. 1 Burrito = 12 bites.  1 Burrito cut up in a giant bowl of spinach = 40 bites.)
• The cheapest spinach is at Mi Tierra market on 16th and Mission.  
• Always wear a helmet.  Always lock up bikes with a U lock.  Never put bikes on roofs of cars.  
• The “I think we should stop seeing each other” conversation does not get easier with practice.
• Wearing basically the same clothes every day frees up a lot of mental space.
• A designated laundry “Purgatory” holder next to the hamper (not technically clean, but not quite dirty) is essential to life.  Giant lamp shades work well for this.
• There are few opportunities to repay your parents (i.e. moments when they need your love and support as much as you have needed theirs throughout your life).  Such opportunities should not be squandered, though they usually are.
• Proscuitto will definitely get stuck in your throat if you try to swallow it without chewing.  No matter how well your darts game is going, just stop and go clear your air passage.
• Witty intellectual Halloween costumes, even when based on trending pop culture or political themes, are rarely as good as easy-to-recognize classic ones.
• Never pay someone before they deliver your furniture.  
• If ordering multiple barrels of wine for a party, open one at a time. That way if people only drink a few liters, the other two are still intact (and potentially returnable for a refund).
• Happiness is biking from Golden Gate Park to SoMa at 10pm on a Tuesday night after a track workout and a few $2 Tecates at the Mucky Duck.

Things I learned about myself in 2013:

• Fine dining and high fashion are not luxuries I appreciate.
• Grocery delivery and non-stop flights are luxuries I appreciate.
• I am slowly becoming my mother.  
• I am addicted to agnosticism -- the dangerous tendency to relegate anything that is complex or difficult to understand to the realm of “Things that humans will never be able to fully comprehend.”
• If there is cheese in the refrigerator today, there will not be cheese in the refrigerator tomorrow (I am incapable of not eating all the cheese).  
• The thing I value most in a companion is the ability to be surprisingly honest, unfiltered and authentic.  But if they can also fix bikes, tell good jokes and/or love tacos, it doesn’t hurt.
• Running is essential to my mental and emotional well-being. I may have already known that in 2012 but it really hit home this year.
• I am more flattered by exclamations of surprise and disbelief than by direct compliments (think talking to a five-year-old: “No way! Can you really name all the colors?!”)
• I should not have pets.  Or plants.
• I should not be trusted near other people’s leftovers.
• If someone asks for my help on a project, I will commandeer the entire operation, go above and beyond all expectations and leave them feeling grateful but also uncomfortable with critiquing anything I’ve done (even if it was never really asked for).
• I have a mediocre singing voice and am not the least bit embarrassed by it.

I’m not going to mark my personal growth on the wall in my apartment (mostly because it’s painted green and pencil wouldn’t really show up) but I think it’s safe to say I’m older now than I was a year ago.  

Now that I think about it, I’m not sure what the actual Goal of growing up is… Becoming a Master Sage, I suppose.   So if nothing else, the lampshade laundry purgatory was a major step.

Fenjoyment

I live with a pastry chef.   It is as magical and dangerous as it seems, given that I have the self-control of a labrador puppy when it comes to tasty things sitting on a table low enough for me to reach.

On a typical weeknight, Meredyth the pastry chef and I plop our backpacks, bikes and selves down in our sofa-sized living room and report on our days--stories of burnt crusts and new recipes to empathize with stories of server crashes and iOS updates.  She mills around in our kitchen (which is just a five foot extension of the living room) constructing salads with no less than fifteen ingredients from scattered and unlabeled mason jars while I sit on the couch breaking off corners, then quarters, then halves of brownies and chocolate caramel bars straight from the tupperwares she brings home.  After all, it would be disrespectful to Meredyth’s hard work not to give each of them a fair sample.  

The topic of discussion at the most recent Nightly Unwind was “Things we say we like but secretly don’t.”  When Meredyth first posed the question, I scoffed.  I am a middle-finger-to-Public-Opinion San Franciscan -- why would I pretend to follow trends when the whole point of being a hipster is nonconformity?  But as we got to talking, I realized there are plenty of things I "fenjoy". Things that -- for all the buzz and excitement and photo sharing -- seem to be a fabulous time, but upon further introspection, aren't actually that great.

For example, concerts.

PERSON: “Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival is this weekend!”
ME: “Oh really?  That’s sweet.”
“You're going right?”
“Hopefully I’ll catch some of it.”

“Nick Lowe and String Cheese Incident are playing! I can't wait! We’re going to set up camp with a big group and be there all three days.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing.  I’m jealous.”

I’m not jealous.  Live music is awesome.  Craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the band through a seaweedy sea of a thousand waving iPhone cameras is not.  The Lumineers are great.  White dudes in polos who get wasted at Lumineers concerts are not.  The excitement I get out of being only a few hundred feet away from musicians who I greatly respect and admire is not worth the time I spend watching the guy with the thick neck hoisting his cheerleader girlfriend onto his shoulders just so she can take an audio-saturated video of indistinguishable light beams.

I would rather do almost anything than go to a music festival.  I would rather watch a band that I’ve never heard of play at a bar where I can sit in a chair and drink a beer and then use the restroom.  I would rather watch an elementary school teacher jam on an acoustic guitar at the laundromat open mic night so I can chat with her about politics over coffee after she’s done playing.  I would rather go to Catholic mass than Outsidelands -- then at least I can hear what the person on stage is saying and the tiny cups of alcohol are free.

For a second example of things I fenjoy: good restaurants.

“Have you been to that new place on the corner of Someteenth and Other?”

“No, not yet.”

“Oh. My. God.  They have the absolute best short ribs in the world.  The chef is from Portugal and they make all their sauces on the table right in front of you.  You have to go.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing.”

“It’s right next to that Polynesian ice cream place.”

“Never heard of it.”

“What?!?!   Unbelievable.  They have a balsamic vinaigrette flavor - which sounds crazy, I know - but it literally makes me cry it is so delicious.”

“Awesome, I will put it on my list!”

I don’t have a list.  I have no ambitions of trying all the best restaurants in the city. As much as I like tasty food and sharing meals in good company, the frenzy for hyper-quality dining experiences just makes me sleepy.  The whole charade of dinner feels more like work than leisure.  First, there is the preliminary Yelp research comparing a half dozen options under the filters: Burgers, Within 5 miles, $$, Open Now, 4.5 stars or higher with a minimum 50 reviews.  Then there are the reservations or the impossibility of making them or getting them.  Then there’s the waiting in line until the hostess (who will mercilessly banish a party of five for arriving without all of their group members) finally leads you to your table like salmon swimming upstream through the waitresses and bathroom-goers and bartenders that all seem to be going the opposite direction.  

At the table, everyone squints under the mood lighting at the menu even though everyone has already looked at it online.  The next thirty minutes are dedicated to diligent study and discussion forum.

“What is peanut muscovado milk?”

“Or umeboshi vinaigrette?”

“What is ah-oh-lye?”

“You mean aioli?”

The girls are mentally process-of-eliminating anything that sounds too carb-y or fried.  The grad students are ruling out anything over $19.99.  The hard core foodies are searching for something they haven’t tried before.  When the plates arrive and people start eating, the gushing begins.  Everyone takes turns commenting on how amazing/incredible/so freaking good the food is.  The conversation may only take a few brief tangents away from the deliciousness of the food throughout the course of the meal.  The check-splitting process is a whole separate ordeal in which the cashless are judged and the exact-changeless are usually screwed.

It's too much.  There, I said it.  Sometimes I just want to go to a restaurant with lights more than 60 watts where the only choices are chicken or beef and everyone gets the same plate of meat and veggies and rice and beans and the crumbs you spill don’t matter because the tablecloth is made of plastic (#colombia).

The concept of Fenjoyment also works in reverse - sometimes we say we hate things that, deep down, we kind of like. Like foggy mornings and Mondays and food comas and being in a hurry and living in sketchy neighborhoods. Or maybe that's just me... (but Meredyth agrees with me on the concerts and the foggy mornings.)

Coping Mechanisms

I cried at 2pm on Monday.  

Nothing weighs down the feathers of your everyday problems like immobility.  Flooded email inboxes and fussy clients and capricious internet speeds are all fun and games until it’s 7pm and you can’t go for a run.  Now, all of the sudden, the world--with all of its wars and diseases and natural disasters--shrinks up like a raisin as your mind loses its capacity to fret about anything other than itself and its slipping white-knuckle clutch on sanity. 

This is Science™: jogging serves to shake accumulated head sand down to a subconscious corner of the cranial cavity-- a sort of dusting off of the neurological pathways, if you will--creating cerebral cleanliness for creative, big-picture and other-centered thoughts.  When this ritual is absent, the brain sits stagnant in a puddle of its own grime, secreting and reabsorbing the same exhausted stimuli in its immediate surroundings.

Phone beeps--Text message from Ali--I'm hungry--No food--Need groceries--No time--Write rent check--Go to the post office--Go to the laundromat--Beep--Email--Pasta for dinner?--Carbs--Evil--Call mom--Call lady from craigslist--Buy batteries on Amazon--What else?--Birthday present--Need a card--Still hungry--Need groceries--Laundry is done--Text Ali back--Make online shopping list--Make grocery shopping list-- -- --

No forward motion is achieved, only a dizzying carousel of mind frenzy. There is only one way to shut if off: Run.

Thus a random lack of cartilage under my left knee cap has the fascinating secondary side effect of Monday afternoon mental breakdowns.  While I was scuffling around down there at rock bottom after exactly four alligator tears had been hastily wiped from my chin, I decided to make a Plan of Action (making Plans of Action is my second favorite stress-coping mechanism, after running):  

1.  Hire a professional to poke my leg and tell me things about it (desperate times call for desperate measures).

2.  Take out my pent-up bodily rage on machines designed for people who like to work out but hate to run, i.e. cardio machines at the gym (again, desperate times...).

I didn’t want to do either of those things. I have traditionally found both of those things to be frivolous activities of the spoiled and unimaginative bourgeoisie. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from running, it’s that when something sucks, just do it faster to get it over with.  So I surfed Yelp for physical therapists in San Francisco, bookmarking all the ones with reviews that referred to the practitioner as “the man”--as in, “I went to Dr. Rob when I hurt my back, he’s the man!”   Then I called around to find out which gyms offer free one-day trials. Surprisingly, Equinox (the celebrity fitness club) will allow anyone to experience their “temple of well-being” for a day.  I told the account manager on the phone that yes, I was interested in learning more about membership and that I would be there for a consultation in 15 minutes.  


I put on my nicest pair of spandex, grabbed my backpack, grabbed my bike and headed out the door. It was a singing bird kind of blue-sky-sunny-California day. I rode one block down the street, turned around, went back inside, changed into my shorts, hopped on my bike and started riding in the opposite direction of Equinox, up a hill.  Feel the burn.  I just couldn't bring myself to spend such a glorious day working out inside.  
This is Math™: Outside > The gym.  Every time.

Even a “temple of well-being” with its entourage of sexy personal trainers and yoga ball stands and coconut water refrigerators and stone massages (at least this is what I am imagining such a gym to be like) will never induce the same endorphin rush as days like Monday.  There are just some things that, no matter how cutting-edge or premium high quality they may be, gym memberships just can’t buy. For example: the incline up Presidio Drive that’s so steep you can barely keep your front wheel grounded, or the head wind gusts off the Bay, or the sun setting behind the fog over the Golden Gate.  The real thing, not a poster.  

For further example:

1. Instagrapportunity.  

Unless you’re a tool, you can’t send anyone a Snapchat pic of the elliptical machine you’re working out on.  First of all, the mirror in front of the machine would inevitably cause you to catch the reflection of yourself taking the photo which--as everyone knows--is a cardinal violation of the Instagrules. In the great outdoors, on the other hand, even random trees by the sidewalk are shareworthy.  This kind of exercise is not a chore or some masochistic ritual to make me skinny!  This is an adventure!  Who doesn’t want to text their mom these photos?

2.  Superiority complex.  

While there is always someone at the gym less fit than you, being surrounded by people who are exercising never generates the same self-righteous high as working out near civilians.  When you power up a 31% grade hill like some sort of mountain animal while the people sit at outdoor cafe tables munching on thin crust pizzas, it doesn’t even matter if they are paying attention to you or not.  You imagine that they are.  With your eyes laser fixed at the exact midway point between your handlebars as you thrust down each pedal, you can see in your periphery that they are watching, indeed staring, drop-jawed, mushrooms sliding off drooping pizza slices that haven’t made it to their mouths yet as they gape in awe at your herculean strength.

3. The gratifying post-shower.  

So you got a little sweaty during Pilates - there was probably enough anti-bacterial wipe residue on the mat you were rolling on to make your pores excrete lemon zest.  You wash up in the locker room anyway because you may as well at least save on your utility bill if you’re going to pay $80/month to work out.  But when the streets are your gym, the shower is your nirvana.  You emerge reborn.  The gear-shaped oil ring on your calf, the dirt clinging to the salt rim along your hairline, the soot under your nails and the layer of city grit on the back of your neck and the pits of your knees all swirl together in a satisfying brownish whirlpool just before being slurped down the drain, returning to the bowels of the beast from whence they came.

4. Athletic solidarity

Unless you are my teammate or training partner, I do not want to watch you exercising while I am exercising.  This is because you either A) seem to be in phenomenal shape and I will be forced to think that you are not intelligent in order to compensate for the fact that you are stronger and/or faster than me or B) look ridiculous wearing those spandex and doing those silly lunge jumps and I will mentally mock you and then have a moment of panic where I wonder if that is what I look like to you.  This perversion of true competitiveness is caused by fluorescent lighting and wall-to-wall mirrors.  In the natural world, when I pass you on the trail or on the street doing your thing, I will nod sincerely.  Consider this a virtual high five.  Way to go!  Way to put yourself out there to achieve that physical goal!  No matter how far you’ve got to go, you’re on the right path.  Go get ‘em, I salute you.  

Every day this week I’ve woken up thinking, “Maybe I’ll go to the gym today.”  Maybe I’ll go tomorrow.  Probably not.

A long a** jog down memory lane

The resounding question ringing with the cellphone alarm in my ears was Why?  Why am I awake at 3:00 A.M.?  Why are we rushing to pack up our sleeping bags after two hours of sleep?  Why did we sign up to spend 24 hours running along 216 miles of central Oregon highway?  Why would anyone pay money for a weekend of sitting in a sweaty van, eating caffeine gels and granola bars and advil by the handful and yet still feeling fatigued and hungry and bloated?

In my dazed rage and confusion, I swore to myself that I would not be participating in this nonsense next year.  Or ever again.  The nightmares of last year’s relay must have been suppressed somehow or contorted with endorphin-swirled memories of the after party.  But in that moment I summoned the scarce mental energy I had available to imprint a future note-to-self in my brain: This is hell.

I was running the Cascade Lakes Relay with a group of my former college track teammates.  School and family reunions are little shovels that unearth older versions of ourselves that we forget exist under the pile of day-to-day minutiae.  These days, I put on makeup to go to work, skinny jeans to hang out with my cool friends, a furrowed brow when reviewing the wine list on the menu -- a stylish facade over my sweats and t-shirt personality.  But when I’m around the people who knew me when I was 18, I melt a little.  I regress a little, back to the me they knew.  

Sitting around a table with nine of my college friends, I am like Bruce Willis in that horrible time travel movie when he is confronted with his younger self and you don’t know which one is the bad guy.  In my case, I can’t tell if it’s worse to be the sort of person whose all-time favorite restaurant is the Olive Garden or to be someone that judges the sort of person whose all-time favorite restaurant is the Olive Garden. Did I used to be a loser or have I become a snob?

For a former hippie turning into a hipster, it’s difficult to distinguish between maturing and selling out.

I ran the last leg of the race, just over six miles through a winding single track trail along the Deschutes River.  The combination of sleep deprivation, scenic beauty and actual light of the sun at the end of the virtual tunnel of the finish line was enough to induce a religious experience.  My teammates gathered behind me to sprint the last 200 meters down the homestretch and all the farts and bad jokes and politically incorrect comments of the past two days were forgotten and I loved them all like family.  

They are my family.  They, like my blood family, have made their mark on me whether I like it or not.  Regardless of the new bandwagons I jump on or the various ways I “grow up,” I’ll still owe a corner of myself to them.  The corner that likes poptarts more than fancy waffles and listens to pop music and doesn’t need alcohol to have a good time--just sunshine and board games.

Who am I kidding?  I am definitely doing this again next year. 

A Motion for Better Parties

Dear Youth of America,

I would like to put forth a motion.  It is my opinion that the set of norms at the foundation of our social scene, evolved from a long lineage of partiers before us, stands to be improved upon.  Our generation shares a common love for "going out" which generally involves drinking, flirting, dancing, girls in skimpy clothing, and posting pictures online of all of the above.  We lose sleep to indulge in such activities and suffer tremendous headaches for the sake of the enjoyment they bring. 

But there are a few special occasions throughout the year where the masses turn the conventional concept of Party on its head--Bay to Breakers being a prime example.  Instead of staying up until four in the morning, people wake up at four in the morning.  Ladies leave their high heels and asphyxiating mini dresses in the closet and dawn their sneakers and sexiest super hero, Where's Waldo, or zombie/unicorn outfits.  While you can tell a lot about a man by the way he wears his jeans in the club, you can tell even more about a man who doesn't wear any pants at all.  Even the ones who prefer to cover up with a layer of body paint, a kilt or a toga are still easier to strike up a conversation with than your typical Brown Hair Guy At The Bar.  

An urban Saturday night often involves waiting in line outside in the cold to pay a cash-only cover for the privilege of entering into a dark, judgmental room.  Once inside, conversations with your friends are limited to "SHOULD WE HIDE OUR JACKETS?" and "I'M GOING TO THE BATHROOM!" and "OH MY GOD, LOOK WHAT SHE'S WEARING!"  Conversations with strangers are limited to eye contact and (often awkward) body contact.  The air smells like sweat and cologne and sex and egos.

Yesterday, at my first ever Bay to Breakers, I didn't pay a cover (it seemed like only about half of the people there actually registered for the race).  I didn't wait in line.  I didn't get blisters on my feet from uncomfortable shoes.  I ran around outside under a cloudless blue sky from the San Francisco Bay to the Pacific Ocean with 50,000 of the area's finest crazies.   We drank beer and coconut water.  We listened to Get Lucky blaring from ambulance speakers.  We danced with sharks and robots and human tacos to hip hop music.  We high-fived and pointed and whooped. The streets smelled like sweat and sunscreen and bubbles and camaraderie. 

We still exchanged pick-up lines and phone numbers.  We still posted obnoxious facebook photos.  We still took drunken afternoon naps.  But we were so much happier.

I hereby propose that all parties henceforth be hosted outside, start in the morning, require exercise, and involve human tacos.