SF2012 and Killer Cartwheels
November 25, 2012
November 25, 2012
My greatest accomplishment of my 20s was puking into a gutter on Haight-Ashbury Street on the day before my 30th birthday.
I did. I vomited in front of a bum and a restaurant full of people eating burritos. And let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you puke into a gutter. You have not.
It was riotous trip, San Francisco was. (For a true recap of the trip, go here). I went with The Cousin and The Sister and between skirting shankings in Oakland, eating Nicolas Cage’s face, and taxi rides from hell, I turned 30 in one of my favorite cities in the whole entire world. And now that I’m older and more beaten down I’ve come to realize a few choice things:
1. Cartwheels Hurt
Every now and then during a sporadic lapse of madness (HAHA, right, when have I ever been sporadic?), I’ll bounce into a cartwheel just to show the world I still got it.
I’ll just kick up my heels, pretending to be five-years-old again with a juice box and spin across the floor.
It’s all fine and dandy when you’re in motion but once those feet are planted, you instantly regret the decision. One time my wrist ached for a week.
This Thanksgiving weekend, I did a celebratory cartwheel for simply putting on pants on my day offe and was met with spots before my eyes.
SPOTS I TELL YOU.
2. Food is Dumb
I have to baby my stomach. Somewhere during the last year it must have shrunk to the size of nun’s hymen.
While in San Francisco, dining like a simple serf at RN74 with my sister, I inquired after the good waiter whether or not it was human bone marrow I was noshing on and was promptly rewarded with his phone number.
And then later that night I was promptly rewarded with a case of the roguish flu. No sir, no more eating bone marrow and sea urchin.
Any food with some semblance of fun instantly turns my stomach into the bowels of hell. It’s depressing. I like masticating. I used to be able to polish off plates of food without running for the nearest shitter. I could mix my solids and liquids. These days my food’s as bland as Ann Veal.
Now during dinner I take a few bites, say meh, and stab someone with my fork. I mean hell, a girl’s gotta take her anxiety out on something.
3. GIVE ME MEDS YOU STUPID FUCKS
Pills make everything better. A bright glow on everything that—wait, am I headed towards the light?
This became evident in San Francisco. All three of us have stomach issues. “You want a Xanax or a Tums?” became the motto of the trip. We doled them out and bartered like we were Irish street urchins trying to buy passage to America.
At my house the medicine cabinet is stocked.
I drink one beer and I take an aspirin.
They’re good for the heart I hear. Either. Beer or aspirin.
Stop looking at me like that.
4. I Sneer Far Too Often
Granted, I feel cooler now that I’m 30. I don’t mind aging. It’s a gift. I’m smarter and by god, I fill out a pair of jeans pretty damn nice.
But now I find myself saying things I normally wouldn’t. Most of the time it’s fine but sometimes a choice retort will fly from my lips in a public place and I’m wondering when someone will punch me in the face.
I mean, Monday morning business meetings get pretty awkward at the office when you call the boss a “cockmaster”.
I’m getting cynical and crabby but since I’ve always been an asshole in my private life, I’m looking forward to unleashing it on complete strangers.
5. Your Writing Gets Better (So do you)
It gets better because of the booze and the pills.
It gets better because you finally have the authority to call yourself an idiot. And you embrace that. And you listen. Anything I write, I try to write it as honest as possible. Except for the dick scenes.
Listening to yourself is the best thing about being 30. I’m glad it’s filtered into my writing. It’s not like I’m going to learn how to become a real estate agent but I can change a little bit.
But I do have a quota on adulthood. There’s only so much I can take. This photo pretty much exemplifying why I will never grow up.