I decided to try surfing yesterday. Me. The girl who wakes up with bruises that can’t be accounted for, walks into walls in places she’s lived in for years, breaks fingers three at a time. I like to think I’ve become fairly athletic over the last few years, I can lift some weights and you can’t touch me in the Pilates studio. Yeah, that doesn’t actually translate to athleticism though, does it? My surfing experience brought me right back to elementary school gym class (ugh, those shorts…) always getting picked last for dodgeball, and the disappointed looks from Mrs. Murray. It only made things worse when Cassie was so damn good at it. Cassie had signed up for the same class as me, and it was just the two of us. Turns out she’s from Long Island too and we had a blast ‘learning’ how to surf together. (I still don’t actually believe this was her first lesson but it’s OK Cassie, you do what you need to).
I can’t really describe what surfing feels like. Cassie could do that for you. I can describe what wiping out feels like. It’s a sensation like your entire head is flooded with salt water; it’s like a neti pot for your cranium. Neti pots are designed to clear your sinuses, and wiping out has the same effect on your brain. I now get the laid-back, stereotypical (completely accurate) surfer attitude. You surf for a couple hours and nothing seems to matter much, maaaaan.
After surfing Cassie and I went in search of some Mexican food since I had been in the city for 30 hours and hadn’t tried any yet.
We ate at this lovely joint…
The food was ok but I really didn’t get the whole West Coast Mexican hype. Brooklyn Mexican is fine by me.
But that was before I had Nati’s… Rob, a good friend from college and East Coast ex-pat, recommended we meet up in Ocean Beach for dinner. I waited outside the restaurant for him and his (adorable) girlfriend. I was pretending to read Kerouac, when a family walked by and had a conversation that went like this:
Bratty 6-yr old on a skateboard: “Look mommy, ewwwww”
Mommy: “Yeah, we’re never eating at that place again. Never ever.”
Awkward teenage brother who is staring dead at me: “Don’t eat there.”
OK. What? Luke and I have a strategy when we’re traveling and can’t decide where to eat. We avoid places where people look sad. This sort of interaction would have raised all kinds of red flags (except Luke only travels to Europe and thus this whole conversation might have occurred in a language we wouldn’t comprehend). Still, Rob is an Eagle Scout (I’m pretty sure) and a trust worthy fellow. The food was actually awesome, so whatever Brat-family Robinson. But at dinner I realized that the worst food choices are made when Rob is present. Halloween-oreo milkshakes, mammoth chocolate chip cookies, that time we ate a whole damn pan of ‘brownies’, Waffle Houses for days on end. I’m not blaming Rob, but as I stared at my deep-fried burrito I saw for the first time that our friendship is really not good for my health, and I’m sort of glad that he lives thousands of miles away.
I woke up this morning and went for a run. My first thought was ‘wow, surfing yesterday, running today- where did I get this Protestant workout ethic from?’ then I thought of the burrito and knew it was just pure Catholic guilt.