The 60-year-old Roommate

It’s 8:00 PM on the longest day of the year and I’m sitting alone in my inner Richmond District apartment. Sex & the City is playing on my iPad and I’m half listening to the sound of Carrie Bradshaw singing a line from The Way We Were. 

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I take a moment to look out of the bay windows of my living room, smile at the sight of the red-shingled roof across the way, before noticing that I’ve strewn the throw pillows hap-hazzardly on the adjacent sofa.

Their smashed shapes cause me to feel a slight discomfort at the edge of my mind. They’re reminding me of a thought I had the other day as I sat on another sofa in a dark loft in Potrero Hill.

In Potrero Hill, I sat on the dark gray cushions of the sectional, my feet tucked up to my right side. My best friend and I had just finished putting the two boys we babysat to sleep and were now watching a particularly exciting episode of The Real Housewives of New York.

Usually, these reality shows are a welcome distraction. I love how invested I can become in the unimportant—not to mention staged—lives of these privileged strangers. It is oh, so relaxing. But this night, as the sound of an engine pulled into the culdesac outside the apartment’s floor-to-ceiling glass windows, I felt something else.

Anxiety.

As you are probably all well aware, anxiety is a daily occurrence in my life. Of course, rather than confide in a professional or go on medication, I choose to talk my friends’ ears off, and when that doesn’t work? I self-medicate with anything from a plate full of brownies to binge-watching friends to a weekend’s worth of gimlets all in one night… all of which, of course, always results in more anxiety, but that’s a whole other story.

So I was sitting there watching The Real Housewives and suddenly this sharp anxiety was brought on by the politically-obsessed, cougar, author princess Carol Radziwill.

It wasn’t anything she said. It was just the entire setting in which we found her in. She was sitting on a sofa (*I’m realizing there’s a lot of sofa sitting in this post) in her penthouse loft with leopard throw pillows and a fantastic coffee table.  To seal the deal, two tiny kittens hopped about playfully and her puppy wagged his little tail happily at home in the space.

As I stared up at the screen in the dark loft (in which I was merely a guest), my stomach suddenly sank. This, of course, was probably a good thing since I have a bachelorette party in a month and had not only finished the boys’ pasta dinner but had also snuck into the cabinets to eat a variety of snacks. Still, abated hunger aside, didn’t enjoy this sudden rush of panic.

You see, I had suddenly realized the one difference between Carol’s life and my own. Okay, so not the only difference, but this one seemed pretty important. As I saw how much the interiors reflected the princess’s personality, I was shocked to realize that I would never (at least not in San Francisco) have that. I will never have my own place.

At least not until I am in my late-30s, early-40s, and even then! I am a writer (with some public relations experience) who has no significant other and probably never will. This means that for the rest of my adult life, I will live with roommates.

Don’t get me wrong. I adore having roommates now. Even as I approach my thirties, I love the fact that it’s not always my turn to buy the toilet paper and paper towels, that there’s three of us to unload the dishwasher, and that on the rare occasion I drink a bit too much (very, very, very rare… cough, cough), I  wake up and am immediately reassured that nothing I did the previous evening will be held against me. It doesn’t get better than that.

BUT, when it comes to the next ten years of my life, I don’t exactly picture myself living in a San Francisco apartment with at least two other people. No. I imagine my own studio that allows for guests at any hour and screams of my personal aesthetic. Of course, it will be messy, but in my own oh, so chic way. Okay, so it will probably just be really messy, but I’ll totally be able to shove all of that clutter into hiding whenever necessary. Isn’t that what having a grown-up life is supposed to be like?

But, if I’m being realistic—and I’m a Capricorn so I like my reality checks like I like my collagen pills, twice daily with food—this will not be the case.

If my track record holds true, I will be a roommate for the rest of my godforsaken life! See, there’s no possible way to afford a one bedroom or studio by myself, so the only “adult” apartment I can own would have to be shared with a boyfriend. Now, I have never felt the need to chase after monogamy (and that goes for polygamy, folygamy, and all the ‘amies),  and I don’t see myself ever settling down.

I have gotten over any problems I had with that scenario long ago, but now, this thought is suddenly causing me to question my choices (in all aspects of my life). Does staying single mean I’ll never have an apartment of my own? Was my father right when he scoffed at my choice of Creative Writing as a college major? And, if am going to be a roommate for the rest of my natural born life, does this redefine my definition of adulthood? Does it redefine me??

It’s been four years now since I moved to San Francisco. During this time, I’ve always felt that though I love living here, it’s a temporary place; San Francisco is a place I will live until I’ve made a name for myself career-wise. It’s a temporary place that I’ll live in my twenties until I find someone to marry. It’s a temporary place for me to get my cosmopolitan fix until I’m ready to raise a family on shave ice, aunty beach days, and words like “bocha bocha” aka before I move home to Hawai’i.

Now, as I start to realize that I will probably never have children and that I’m okay with that, San Francisco has become more permanent. It’s the city that I’ve chosen as the place where I will spend my life.

But it is also the city with the highest rent… in the nation? In the world? I know there have been plenty of infographics on the topic, but I can tell you it’s damn expensive and writing doesn’t pay. So here’s my question: Am I going to be a sixty-year-old roommate? If so, what does that mean? Will I still call my purple-haired, walker-needing housemate “roomie”? Or will I be a last and desperate option for some optimistic twenty-something who just moved to the city in search of a bustling exciting life and found me on the next iteration of Craigslist? Help!

San Francisco Apartment
Me in Pacific Heights, standing proudly in front of a home I will never own.
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Sweat, Sideburns, Pregnancy, and MORE

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted here, but this afternoon, as I sat at my desk smearing sriracha on seaweed, I thought, Isn’t it about time I addressed my strangeness again?

In fact, it is. You see, not only have I spent the last 45 minutes nonchalantly making little, spiced seaweed sandwiches at my desk, but I’m also joining a couple of friends at a cardiobarre class after work.

For those of you who have never heard of cardiobarre, let me explain. It’s a workout class that pulls techniques from dance, like ballet, to give you beautiful dancer bodies. Now, when people picture the participants in these classes, they generally imagine well-dressed women with long lean muscles pointing their toes and flexing their abs of steel.

As you can imagine, this is not quite the look I have.

Not only do I usually show up for class with a hangover still very present in my body, but I also have not yet invested in workout clothing that is up to the standards of most of these women. Instead, I show up a lá ‘90s middle schoolers in an oversized t-shirt and bike shorts, and though the kids from Saved by the Bell may approve, let me tell you, these Hayes Valley folk do not. 

So I’m usually off to a pretty great start before class has even started…

Now, let’s talk about the actual class and what I’m looking forward to most about the one tonight.

Picture yourself in a room lined with mirrors so that you can’t possibly think for a moment that you’re doing any of the moves right. There’s actual proof that you’re failing from every angle! And I mean every angle…

There are moments when I look up, sweat sticking my flyaways to the sides of my face so that I am sporting a nice long pair of sideburns, and I see this strange curve to my body in the corner mirror that I think MUST be some sort of growth. So I freak out and drop the leg that I have suspended in the air (though not nearly at the place it should be) only to find that no, it was not a growth. It’s just what happens when my body meets gravity… and that left corner mirror gives me a excellent view of this newfound phenomenon.

There are, of course, also gigantic floor-to-ceiling glass windows facing the street so that all the passerby can admire as you squat down into what should be a plie but instead looks like an injured toad trying to hop.

Next, we’re asked to do things like lift our legs in repeated series and angles. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Well, that’s where you’d be wrong. Lifting your leg is fucking hard!

Staring into the mirror, you expect to see your toes make it at least to your shoulders, but instead, you discover that your toes are barely making it a foot off the ground. So you try and lift your leg higher, but find that you’re simply crunching down from your waist. So rather than having your leg lift up as your abs contract, you’re simply lowering your top half down in a desperate attempt to bring the two together.

Let me tell you something. That’s not as effective…

Okay, so by now you basically understand the total humiliation I willingly endure in order to con myself into thinking that I’m getting back into shape. But it doesn’t end there!

The final straw that breaks the camel’s back is that as part of the beginner class, I am with none other than the very chic, ultra cool pregnant women who take these classes like they take prenatal vitamins. They’re in there with their ribbed tank tops and stretchy pants, looking flawless—while I try not to make too many grunting noises or fart when we plie.

But at the end of class when the pain is gone, and I’m feeling pretty darn pleased myself for not throwing up, I let my anger at these Super Women fade and just enjoy the fact that while they will probably drink sparkling water and be beautiful in a couple of hours, I will be counteracting everything I just did with a big bottle of wine or beer and a donut. #Fitspo AMIRIGHT?

Cheers everyone. I’ve missed you.

And The Craziest San Franciscan of the Week is…

And the crazy San Franciscan of the week award goes to… the homeless man with pants around his ankles hugging the large stone and yelling jumbled, angry threats at no one in particular.

You could have gone for a solo performance of pontificating your gibberish thoughts or simply banked on the shock factor of exposing your junk to the suited passerby of the financial district.

But no! You are no half-ass performer (as I saw all too clearly as I walked by). You sir, are a true master of your craft. You pulled off both of these actions with just the right amount of vigor to leave the rest of us wondering if you had really gone of the deep end or if, in fact, you were just frustrated by the inappropriate amount of pigeons in the downtown area… they’re going to take over soon, I tell you!

So, sir. For all of this, I vote you as crazy San Franciscan of the week. Congratulations!


So, sir. For all of this, I vote you as crazy San Franciscan of the week. Congratulations!

An Open Letter to Creepy Middleaged Men Riding Muni

Today’s post (for once) is not about how I’m a freak, but rather the breed of freak that is middleaged men riding muni who think it’s totally socially acceptable to creep on little foreign girls…

UNACCEPTABLE

Of Course, I don’t believe all middleaged men are super freaks. I assume there are some out there who are just fine. I mean, my dad’s a pretty cool guy. He has a mustache and though he does sit in the garage listening to ocean sounds rather than driving to the beach (a ten minute drive from the house) he’s pretty normal. Well, in dad standards anyway – I have a theory that once guys become dads they just get super weird because they don’t know what else to do.

But, for those of you middleaged men who ride muni and decide it’s, like, the optimal time to live out your teenage fantasies, NOPE. You’re wrong. No one wants it.

Harsh? I think not.

Here’s what you need to know:

1. This girl, in her early twenties, is not going to swoon over your cargo shorts and receding hairline. You want to know where that happens? Hollywood. You want to know why? Those guys are MOVIE STARS with a lot of cash and the promise of a sweet lifestyle.

Not some house in the outer Sunset and stories of the glory days you spent at Stanford.

2. Just because she doesn’t speak English very well does NOT mean she doesn’t understand that you’re trying to, like, kidnap her or some shit.

She does not want to tell you her name. She does not want to tell you where she’s going. She does not want to tell you where she lives / is catching the bus from. 

She wants to sit in her seat without you leaning over into her space and stare out the window pretending you and your “super cool” necklace don’t exist.

3. On the same note of her not speaking English very well, she does not care that you took a semester of Chinese and can say “I love you” in Cantonese. Honestly, you sound like a dick. 

4. I don’t get the whole fascination with Asian girls (maybe because I am one) but, like, if you’re into it because she seems so meek and shy, I’ve got some news for you. The reason she’s not talking to you is because she. does. not. want. to. She doesn’t know you!

Seriously, I really want to know what you think you’re going to get out of this. Do you really believe that this young woman is going to be so charmed by your ability to still smoke weed at age 50 that she’ll say, “yes, please accompany me when I get off the bus. I think we could really have something here”?

You can’t possibly think that! There’s no way that you can honestly believe that this young woman is attracted to your wrinkled skin, TEVAS, and graying hair. No.

So, why don’t you do us all a favor and keep us from choking down vomit while commuting? Sit silently in your own space or read a damn book or something. Leave these poor young women alone. 

Sincerely,

EVERY OTHER PERSON ON THE BUS

 

 

 

How to Totally Freak Out Your Physical Therapist ( and What Sweat Has to do With it)

Okay so I promised the story of my physical therapy appointment.

Let’s refresh our memories. The last post was about how I failed to shave my legs (duh) before an appointment with my doctor to check out my knee. Yes, that means it was not only I who was being pricked and prodded during that appointment, but my doctor as well.

The conclusion of that piece was that I went to a physical therapist…and I left you all with the promise that I would share about the embarrassingly sweat-filled fun I had there.

Here I am keeping my promise. I’m such a great gal. *patting myself on the back.

I’ve been living in San Francisco for a while now. 7 months. During that time, my tolerance for heat and humidity has gone way down. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a child of the sun and don’t mind 80 degrees of damp sunshine beating down on me. The problem is that I sweat.

I have always been exceptionally sweaty.

I’m talking drenched in yoga class after the first downward dog while everyone else is slightly chilly from the breeze sneaking through the window.

Oh, I think that I should also bring up the fact that the reason I am in need of physical therapy is because whenever I run it feels like my knee is crushing down on itself ‒ bone against bone…

In the appointment:

I am introduced to the young man who will be helping me, Marco. Marco is a nice guy maybe a couple of years older than I am. He shakes my hand and leads me to the room where we will figure out what’s wrong with me.

As he’s walking me to the room, he says, “so this is your one and only appointment. How’d you work that out?”

“Well,” I say, “I’m going back to San Francisco tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he accepts that answer and is ready to get down to business, “how old are you?”

“23. About to be 24. I’m turning 24 in January so, like, THIS next month! So 23 but basically 24,” I answer because I can’t just leave it at 23…

He looks up with eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

I know why.

“You thought I was, like, 12 didn’t you?”

That really puts him on the spot.

“Uh…yeah. Whoa. Sorry. Let me get my foot out of my mouth and we can continue.”

“Eh,” I shrug, “it’s totally fine. I know what I look like. I was once asked if I should be driving…” <– true story by the way…I was 20 years old at the time.

Cue semi-awkward silence where we both re-evaluate the situation and I have to bite my tongue so as not to say “it’s cus i’m chillin’ with no makeup on.”

Not that I ever look much older than 16, but the fact that I’m not wearing any makeup, and I’m hapa (part Asian), and am wearing a big t-shirt and shorts definitely sends my looks back to my middle school days.

Truthfully, the only thing that stops me from throwing out that Drake line to explain my lack of twenty-something looks, is the fact that the line that follows it is: “that’s when you’re the prettiest I hope that you don’t take it wrong.”

Not only am I NOT at my prettiest (I think I’d thrown my hair back into that weird, half-pulled-through ponytail bun that was so popular in, like, the 6th grad) but I just am not trying to bring up looks at a time like this. I mean this tanned, in-shape Marco guy is about to work out my knee (thank god I shaved this time) while I, the 12-year-old twentysomething, have to struggle to keep cool and not think about how white and flabby I’ve gotten since the running stopped and the 6 layer dip-a-thons began.

But enough. Let’s move along with the appointment.

Marco then asks me to explain my knee problems to him to make sure what he has written down is correct.

I relay the facts to him. My knee has had “small kine” problems for a while, but it isn’t anything that has stopped me from running. Then around November, I would run for a bit and then this incredible pain would start to occur.

He asks me how far I usually run and I tell him that my normal day run would be about 6 miles but the recently the pain would start to occur at about 3.

“Oh. Wow,” he says and nods, “6 miles on average? That’s my far run.”

Yes! I think to myself, I’m freakin’ impressive.

That moment doesn’t last long.

He then nonchalantly asks how often I stretch.

You know that moment in Pitch Perfect when Fat Amy is asked why she has Bumper’s number and all she can do is make that high pitched “eehhhhhh” sound?

[Author’s note: if you don’t know what I’m talking about you should probably watch it right now and then get back to this post]

Well, that is the sound I make.

Marco is no longer impressed. Dammit.

“Okay,” he says finally, “well you should be stretching three times a day…at least.”

“Oh,” I respond. Cool.

Then has me lie down.

Here’s a shocker: I’m a super self-conscious person. Me lying down and having to do strange leg lifts while this virtual stranger (albeit a professional trainer) presses on me in different areas is quite possibly one of my biggest fears.

And so the sweating begins.

But it doesn’t end there.

We’re sitting there (okay well he’s standing there pressing my knee and I’m lying on my back wondering when I’m gonna be back in my cave…I mean home) and I can’t seem to shut up. God forbid I don’t tell him about the spontaneous dance parties I’ve been having while working from home OR how super cool my mom is and how she’s my best friend and I just want to stay home and hang out with her rather than go out to bars at night…I mean, these are all things he really needs to know.

At this point Marco is just shaking his head and laughing at me because he’s not quite sure what to say to the flood of personal information i’m offering.

I’m currently doing a strange leg lift because I need to strengthen the left side of my thigh and he asks me,

“Does your phone have a camera?”

At this point in the appointment, I figure he knows me well enough to joke around (since I’ve basically shared with him every detail of my life post college). Oh god, I think, I look so ridiculous right now he wants to take a picture of me in this Olivia NewtonFonda position to make fun of me.

“Nope,” I lie.

“Really?” He asks, and sounds a bit too surprised, “I thought every phone had a camera these days.”

That sly dog. He’s looking at me so seriously I almost believe this isn’t a prank. I won’t be fooled! I never let myself be embarrassed.

“Okay,” he says. Now he sounds really serious and a little disappointed, “I guess I’ll just draw the pictures of the exercises you have to do. I’m sorry I’m not the best at drawing.”

Oh…the apology is what does it. That’s what makes me realize that he’s not kidding around with me and is seriously asking for a camera so that he can document the exercises. That way I’ll have them to look at when I have to recreate them in San Francisco.

He’s getting up to go get a piece of paper and a pen to hand draw each of the exercises. I can’t believe that’s something he’s even willing to do.

“Wait,” I say. Fudgescicles how am I going to word this? “…I lied? My phone does have a camera.”

The last sentence comes out fast and mumbled.

“What?” he asks turning back from his route to find the necessary drawing supplies.

“I have a camera on my phone,” I admit and sit up to grab it out of my purse.

“Are you serious?” He’s staring at me with this confused look, blinking his eyes.

“Yeah,” I say unlocking and tossing the phone to him, “I just didn’t want my picture taken.”

Gah! I am not even looking at him.

He’s shaking his head at my phone in disbelief. I’m not sure he’s ever had a patient who felt the need to lie to him before.

Can you imagine my sweating now? 

After showing him the camera on my phone, it is time to learn a new exercise.

While I’m learning this new exercise, I have to lie on my side (which is just an awkward position to be in – I don’t care who you are) and my phone rings.

“Oh!” I exclaim grabbing it from off the end of the table where he’s placed it, “it’s my mom.” – Awesome. He already knows how cool i think my mom is…

Why the higgedy heck is my MOM calling me when she knows I’m in this appointment?

I shout into the phone and there’s no response. Ends up, it’s a butt dial…

“UGH!” I cry because I have no filter at this point, “my mom just butt dialed me. She KEEPS doing that!”

At this point Marco is just staring at me like I’m a crazy person. Who’s mom butt dials them on the reg?!

We then go through a series of exercises to strengthen my knee and keep it responsive. I have to do a squat for a minute. Lunges for a minute each. Something called the Captain Morgan (oh because did I mention he figured out that my hips are even weaker than my knees?), three different types of leg lifts, and a couple of thigh stretches.

*Small side note – When I learn how weak my hips are I think back to my horseback riding days when my hip would occasionally pop and then I can’t listen to anything that Marco’s saying because my sick and twisted mind jumps to childbirth – why the hell would it jump to childbirth when I’m not even thinking about doing the nasty with anyone – but it does and i’m, like, omg does this mean I’m going to break my hips when I try to have one? You know my dad went to a psychic once who told him I was going to have problems with that. LUCKILY I am able to keep these thoughts to myself which is shocking seeing as I told him everything else I was thinking during that appointment. Embarrassing it’s like, HELLO, Kellen this is a physical therapist not one for your mental-ness

Okay back to blog post

Oh, did I forget to mention that when we are doing the squat he asks if I know proper form and I say, “isn’t it something about pushin’ your booty out?”

Dear god why would I EVER use the word booty? He responds with, “well… if you move your knee over your second toe like it’s supposed to be, then, yes, your bottom will go further out.”

“Right.” My bottom. Much better way of putting it.

I haven’t done strength training since I took that bootcamp class in college so I’m really hurting at this point. I’m sweating and have to be very careful not to lift my arms (if you know what I mean). Don’t know what I mean? Two words: pit. stains.

I’m also trying not to think about how similar to Gollem I must look right now with my hair plastered to my forehead.

That’s when Marco hits me with another question. You would think that I’d have learned from the last time but…you can’t teach an old dog new tricks…

So the question he asks me is which of the exercises was my favorite.

And I’m like uhhhhh. I hate them all. So none.

“No, really,” he’s kind of smiling so I’m sure this time we’re actually pals and he’s kidding around with me. That means I can answer honestly.

“None,” I say again.

“Really?” He asks and is shaking his head.

Should I have taken notes on how many times he shook his head?

“Yes,” I say, “really.”

“Okay…” he kinda tilts his head sideways as if to tell me that he thinks I’m unnecessarily difficult but can’t voice it because I suppose that’s not very professional, “what’s your least favorite?”

“Oh, the lunges,” this I can answer quickly.

“Okay,” he grins, “then we start over with the lunges. Stand up.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say staying seated.

He “hmphs” incredulously at my response and still stationary self, “yes. I’m serious. Stand up.”

So I stand up and he quizes me on propper lunge form. Omg I hate it so much. And the sweat is really happening now since this is the second set.

“I’m swweeaaattiinnnngggggg,” I complain and am frowning at him because this is actually torture. Like, I not only do I hate being in a room alone with someone I’ve just met, but I also REALLY hate sweating in front of someone I just met. And boy am I sweating.

“It’s Hawaii,” he sighs and shakes his head again (gah at the beginning of this post I should have created a contest for whoever could guess the number of times my physical therapist had to shake his head at me), “everyone sweats.”

“Yeah,” I counter, putting my hands on my hips and trying to suck in my belly since that’s what I’m supposed to be doing, “but, like, I’m REALLY sweating. I mean, has anyone ever sweat this much before?!”

Marco just laughs.

“Okay,” I know I’m right, “so they haven’t. Like, I’m the sweatiest! Omg I hate it so muuuuuuch.”

“Just do these when you’re at home watching tv,” he suggests. As if that will solve ANY of my problems.

“But then my roommates are going to have to see me sweat! Can you imagine this happening while they’re trying to watch a good show? I’d ruin everything!”

Marco doesn’t have anything to say. I think he finally figures out that there’s no consoling me. I am a mean, not so lean, sweat-complaining machine.

The end of the appointment:

It’s the end of the appointment. I’m finally no longer leg lifting or lunging and can stand normally. Poor Marco can only shrug and hand me my phone and exercise assignments.

“Sorry for making you sweat?” he says because what else is he supposed to say at this point. I’m sure when he entered into the appointment he’d had no idea that his patient would be so nagging or so willing to share each and every thought that sprung to her mind.

I thank him because that’s a good thing to do after making someone almost as uncomfortable as myself for an hour, and he says to me, “um have fun in San Francisco…” then he adds thoughtfully, “try to not to get into trouble.”

At this point he looks, like, actually incredibly concerned. Like, here he is sending this mentally unstable twentytwelve-year-old off to the big bad city.

Welp. Don’t worry, Marco. I’m doing just fine. Maybe not doing my knee exercises as much as I’m meant to, but I’m back in the city and living up my twentysomething life!

How I Found Love on the Streets of San Francisco (and Why Facebook Should Take Notice)

So here’s something new.

Facebook now gives me little notifications to let me know when my friends get engaged.

Why am writing a post about this?

Well, let me tell you why.

I am writing about this new feature because it actually brings a little comic relief to my life. During my social networking I am now able to see all of the people who are progressing in their relationships. People who have found love – or whatever it is that makes people want to get married.

How is this comical?

It’s comical because I am SO, so so so so so (I can’t even say ‘so’ enough times in this post) far from anything even close to an engagement.

It’s comical because, since moving to the city, I have been hit on a total of 5 times and 4 of those 5 times have been by homeless men.

For your (and my) entertainment let’s go through them.

1. Trash to Treasure

As I walk from my house through the Panhandle I hear a loud, manly yell.

“Hey! I like what you’re wearing! YOU LOOK GOOD.”

I, in turn, smile but just keep walking since I have no interest in someone who cat calls at me. I then am hit with the angry shout of,

“I SAID HELLO! SHE DON’T EVEN TURN AROUND.”

Ah, yes. This is when I realize that the gentleman who has been admiring me is none other than the homeless man I saw a while back. As I turn to look I see that he has already forgotten me and gone back to digging through the trash bin.

I guess my beauty is fleeting.

2. Aryan Ask-out

As I head home from the bus stop and walk past a liquor store on Haight street, a young neo-natzi spots me and the sharp black tattoos across his face twist as he grins.

“Hey!” he says as he moves closer, “Wanna kick it?”

As difficult as it is for me to refuse such an eloquent line, I somehow manage to rush past without looking at him.

3. Drake Debonair

On my way to work there is a man who sits on Market street. As I walk by he grins with mostly gums and says “absolutely beautiful!”

If he can think I’m absolutely beautiful when I’m chillin’ with no makeup on, then I MUST be gorgeous right?

…right?

4. Bus Beau

And finally, the most recent of these times:

I am on the bus with a visiting friend and her friend from school. I let them sit next to each other and I sit across from them facing the back of the bus. A tall gentleman, skinny and obviously unhealthy staggers onto the bus. He mumbles to himself as he makes his way to the back of the bus and slams his body unsteadily onto a seat.

He then precedes to talk to himself about a variety of different things and the conversation seems to be going very well until one of his selves notices that he is on a bus.

“Is this bus going to Haight?!” he cries melodramatically.

The boy beside him nods.

“Good! That’s where I got to go.”

He then goes back to the discussion he was having with himself.

During this time I am talking to my friends about dancing and places to go in the city. I jokingly do a couple fist bumps to explain the kinds of dancing at certain places.

This grabs the man’s attention and informs himself “did you see that? She’s dancing! Having a good time!”

I then realize that I’m going to have to tone things down and become extremely interested in what’s happening outside.

“Are we at Haight?” he asks and I continue to observe the road outside the bus’ window.

He asks again and I can tell he’s looking right at me and wishing that I’d answer him. When I don’t he mumbles “beautiful.” Then, when I don’t respond, “YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL.”

I am still not turning to look at him so he says a couple things to himself, takes out a tearing wallet, puts it back in his pocket then leans forward to my friends.

“I don’t think she can hear me,” he tells them, “but you gotta tell your friend I think she’s beautiful. Actually, I guess I can tell her when I get off the bus.”

Sure enough, as he exited the vehicle he stopped in front of me and with a slurred smile said, “I just gotta say. You’re a beautiful girl.”

Thanks.

Consider my self-esteem lifted.

So thank you, Facebook. While I fend off my homeless suitors and search for a somewhat sane beau, you show me all my acquaintances who have found true love – or at least someone they like enough to do the deed with over and over again.

Super cool. Maybe I’ll develop an app that I can click to share the amount of times someone rolls over on the street and thinks I’m pretty.

What do you think about that Facebook? Eh? Next trillion dollar idea!