You See Me Better

Than I see me.

It’s really true.

I don’t see myself well.

I don’t see how others see me, either, but when I take the time to ask, I get some real nice surprises.

I went downtown today in the afternoon, I had today off, it’s a holiday yo.  And I did some shopping.

My first stop was Optical Underground at Sutter and Grant.

I have been noticing that I need new glasses.

My prescription hasn’t changed that much in the past few years, but as I explained to a ladybug tonight over tea, we’re sensitive people, and my equilibrium has been a little off and I have noticed myself doing the old lady squint a couple of times recently.

I knew I would have today off so I contacted my ophthalmologist, because I wasn’t going to spend a couple hundred or more on the frames at her place, way out of my range, and I had them e-mail my prescription to me.

I took myself to Optical Underground instead, they have the frames they have in the store, nothing more, mostly overstocks or last season, or if they get a hold of the frames from a store that has closed, they’ll scoop them up.

I got my current pair of frames there.

I was not as overwhelmed as I was the first time I went in a few years back, I hadn’t worn glasses at that point in over a decade, since the laser surgery on my eyes, and I couldn’t figure out what frames to buy.

Plus I was really cash strapped and a friend had announced she would help me out with the new frames.

I was abashed to have to ask for help, but knew I had to accept.

That’s how it is so often in my life.

I don’t want to ask for help, but I have to.

Sometimes, yes I know I’m being dramatic, it really is a matter of life and death.

When I went in with my friend the first time she and I wandered around the store for a while then asked the sales clerk to help us pick frames.

“She just got a job at a hipster bike shop in the Mission, she needs hipster glasses,” my friend told the sales girl.

“I’m not a hipster!” I laughed.

Even though I occasionally drink coffee like one and yes, I do ride a one speed flip-flop hub steel frame bike (but really, no true, self-effacing hipster would ride a navy blue frame with rockstar glitter sparkle top coat and purple and silver rims and a flower embossed saddle.  A hipster would have a raw steel frame with a clear coat over it and silver components with a black Brooks saddle and wheel locks), I’m really not a hipster.

My ex called me a “hippiester” once, an amalgamation of hippie and hipster.

I bristled at that.

I laughed too.

There’s some granola in my roll, I don’t doubt it.

But I’m not a hippie either.

I am just myself.

Fabulous me.

The sales girl at Optical Underground looked at my friend, smiled, and said “I know exactly which ones she should try on,” and retrieved a pair from the glass shelf.

They were it.

I knew in the blink of an eye.

As soon as I tried them on, they were perfect.

I did try on a few other pairs, but it was obvious, the first frames were it, and I acquiesced to my friend paying for them.

Grateful then.

Grateful now.

To have the friends I have.

And I thought about that experience as I wandered around the shop not finding anything I liked or that looked good on my face.

The sales clerk today told me my current frames were in great condition and I could just get the new lenses and they would pop them into my frames, but it would take a week.

I wasn’t keen on the idea.

I don’t actually need my glasses to drive, I was able to pass the DMV eye test without wearing them, but I feel a lot better with them on and I notice that, especially with all the writing and reading I do, that I can get headaches from eye strain.

But after going through and trying on ten pairs and not liking anything I saw, I was beginning to think I may have to.

Then.

Well, duh, ask for help genius.

That’s what the sales girl is there for, to help the customer.

I went up to her, showed her the one pair that I liked, but not as much as I liked the ones that I am wearing, and asked for help.

She looked at my face and dashed off, returning shortly with a tray with six frames on them.

The third pair she had picked were it.

I was shocked.

They were fabulous.

I mean, fuck, I would not have picked the frames either.

Um.

They’re really hipster’y.

Ahahahahaha.

I can’t escape it.

And they’re colored.

I was not expecting to end up buying a pair of frames with any color, but the frames fit my face perfect and the colors, a kind of forest green and redwood brown, were super flattering to my skin tone.

I didn’t think twice, I said these are it and I will take them.

I had to laugh when I saw the price tag, $179, I was not expecting that either, most of the frames in the store are around $50-$75, of course they were–I’m great at picking the most expensive thing around (turns out the frames are this “season” as well, which explains the look, a store had just gone out of business and Optical Underground scored all their current stock).

The entire reason I had gone to Optical Underground was because all the frames at my ophthalmologists were too expensive.

Adding the lenses and tax, my total came to $277.

But, as I picked up the frames again and put them on, it was so obvious they were mine, I didn’t bat an eye.

I whipped out the debit card and paid for them.

And I was so grateful that I could, that I have the money to do so, and when I thought about how my friend had bought my last pair, well the bigger price tag really was negated.

I’ll have a new set of glasses to see with in one week.

Grateful that I get to still ask for help.

Grateful that others see me better than I see myself.

Funny how that works.

Wonderful too.

Are You Listening?

Because I am yelling at you.

I almost decided to not hear it anyway, but as I sat this evening unwinding from a challenging bodily fluid day of nannying (thrown up on twice, and the poop, oh dear god, don’t even get me started I don’t want my blog to be hit if you google fecal catastrophe), I got another set of gentle reminders.

Back to back.

“Yeah, never would have thought that after all these years and all the degrees I have, I would now be studying to be a yoga instructor,” an older male acquaintance of mine I have known in and around San Francisco for over eight and a half years.

But I tell you, it looks damn good on him.

He’s always been a pretty healthy guy, but man, he was fucking glowing.

Glowing.

Then on the heels of his words, another man adds, “yoga has saved my ass too many times to count, although I can’t count on it as my primary spiritual practise.”

Well.

There it is.

And then there was the yelling bit.

You never know who is going to say what, and it is important to listen, to hear when things are being directed at you and to take those instructions.

I was walking with the babies around the block coming back from an adventure at the Golden Gate Children’s Area, when I noticed a very happy bum walking down the side-walk.

Weaving really.

And talking pretty loudly.

I kept my eyes focused on the baby in the stroller that was gently dozing off and kept my hand over the other baby, who was snuggled into my chest in an appropriately named, Snugli, keeping his ears covered so he wouldn’t wake up.

He did not sleep at all today, except on me.

Snugli

Which is not the worst thing in the world, but man my shoulders are sore, sore, sore right now and I could stand some stretching.

And probably some, yes, yoga.

As I pushed the stroller at an even pace past the happy drunk, who made way, but then started chatting to himself, to me, to the world, about the kind of stroller I was pushing.

It is pretty cool.

It is a Stokke and if you haven’t seen one, they are pretty space age and ergonomically designed, so that you are not bent over pushing the stroller, you can in fact, walk completely up right and the handle bar is textured and probably the easiest stroller I have ever maneuvered.

And I was busy maneuvering as far away from the smell of malt liquor and dirty socks soaked in urine and left to ferment, he hollered out at me something about now seeing that I had TWO children, jesus, and a bunch of gobbedly gook, shortly followed by the most comprehensive, articulated words, like something or someone else was speaking through him.

“Go to yoga class,” he said.

I actually stopped walking.

He had not, still stumbling, he was past me, careening up the street towards the park, but I could hear it again, “go to yoga class,” he repeated.

Then once more!

What the heck?

I don’t know if he mistook me for one of those über fit moms that push jogging strollers, maybe he didn’t see the tattoos, “she’s like Mary fucking Poppins with tattoos,” but he thought I should get myself to my yoga class, that was pretty obvious.

I did actually go on Saturday to check out the studio that is two blocks from the house, but it was closed in between classes.

What I noticed, intriguing, is the “Digestive Yoga” that is taught there three evenings a week at 8 p.m.

That might be the perfect evening class for me.

Gentle yoga meant to promote evening digestion.

Plus, the time of day is right on for me.

I generally get done with work at 5:45 p.m.

I go take care of the crazy in my head sometime around 6:30 p.m. in the vicinity of 7th and Irving, then ride my bike back to the hood.

I am typically getting back to the house right before 8p.m.

I could make this happen.

I am definitely going back in this week.

You know that saying if three people in a row are assholes, then the asshole is really you?

Well, when I hear from three different people today, some adamantly, some reassuring, and some out of faith, that yoga is what to do next, well, then I am going to take those suggestions and stop thinking about it and just go.

I am going to need the help.

My body is needing the help now.

I may be starting up a week earlier with the new charge, I have a full week this week, an extra shift next week, and the possibility of a three child share care on Mondays.

I can handle it if my body is being taken care of.

Besides, as I see my body returning to its pre-Paris self, thank God, I am now aware of what my bike can do for me and what needs working on.

My bike is fantastic cardio, awesome transportation, and a superior leg strengthener.

I have some bicycle thighs, I do.

They are rock hard.

I also have a pretty nicely define upper waist line again, abdominal muscles play out a lot more in biking then most people realize.

If you have sore arms, it is most likely that you are relying on your arms too much and not your core, your arms are just to steer.

Which leads to the areas that could use some work–my arms.

I hear yoga is good for that.

My flexibility can use some tweaking.

And I need to strengthen my lower back and my knees could use some strengthening.

All areas I hear yoga addresses.

That and the meditation and spiritual practise all rolled up into one.

Shit, living at the beach, doing yoga, eating organic foods, riding a one speed around San Francisco, going to Burning Man all the time.

I must be some sort of new age hipster (don’t fucking call me a) hippie chick.

With tattoos, or course.

Lots of them.

 

Nine Days And Counting

Well, sort of.

Just staying in today was enough.

I realized as I slept in that today was actually the only day until I leave for Burning Man, that I don’t have something scheduled, something committed to, something to do, somewhere to work or to be.

Which meant, sleeping in.

Tomorrow the alarm is set.

And for every day there after, with perhaps Sunday being a day where I do have a commitment to be somewhere, it is later in the day and as such not an alarm sort of day.

Nine days until I leave.

I don’t want my blog to be all about Burning Man, but that’s about all my head is filled with.  Aside from the fact that someone google searched ‘Elizabeth City’ found my blog and read my book that I posted up here years ago.

I wonder how it looks.

I never read it on the blog.

I just chapter by chapter pasted it into the server and published it.

It’s not the same book that m friend has, it’s not the same book that I will end up publishing, I will publish it, but it there are a lot of similarities.

I suppose the writing has gotten better since I posted it.

How could it not?

I practise every day.

I write twice a day every day.

Sometimes I thrash myself a little for not actually writing more, but that is silliness.

Sometimes I trash myself a little for not actually being a published author.

But that is lie.

I have a published song, a published photography essay, a short story, and of course, my blogs.  They get published you know.

I suppose you do.

It was titillating to see the hits on my site and nerve-wracking too, every time someone hits a run on my blog I wonder if I know them.

Who is it from my murky past looking me up?

But that is both egotistical and self-deprecating at the same time.

I am the piece of shit that the universe revolves around sort of thinking.

I mean, I am all I think about, but occasionally, I do want to be there for you too.

I do.

I wanted someone to give soup to today.

I made a big lovely batch up.

French red lentils, one yellow onion, garlic, fresh picked rosemary out of the yard (and I did not get locked out this time!), Italian Roma tomatoes, a can of organic tomato paste, one container of organic vegetable stock, two heads of broccoli, five carrots, one pound of fresh spinach, lots of salt, black pepper, cayenne, and something new for me, quinoa.

I made a pot of red, or ruby if you will, quinoa.

I was surprised and happily so, it is a nice little addition.

I normally make brown rice with this, but I wanted to try something new and I have a friend who raves about quinoa and well, it’s good to find new things in my cooking vocabulary.

It says hippie earth mother muffin when I say it’s vegan, gluten-free, and all organic.

But it’s true.

It also tastes ridiculously good.

And it cooks in less than one hour.

And makes a pretty picture when all portioned out for my weekly meals.

 

Red Lentil Soup

That was my work for today.

That and a little check in with the e-mails for the design firm.  I will be seeing the boss lady, and my dear friend, tomorrow for lunch.

Super excited to hear about her travels and to catch up.

The only other thing I did today was laundry and some reading.

I drank a lot of tea.

I confirmed my hair appointment for tomorrow and made lunch plans.

That is it.

A really chill, relaxing, mellow day.

The rest of the week up until I leave is work.

And this is good.

And then there will be the work on playa.

And this is good too.

I am ready.

I am rested.

And I am off to relax for a few more hours.

This may be my last chance for a bit.