Not to compete with anyone else but me. To make sure I am
being who I should be. Because you know, life is fleeting and shit.
I have struggled with flying for the past decade, but decided
we must fly and go somewhere on our anniversary. This second half of my life
would not be consumed with fear, I declared to my head. We live in Los Angeles, and I chose San Francisco.
Easy enough to head back if the kids had an accident and
We flew from Burbank to Oakland. We hopped on the Bart. I
was nervous about going under the Bay, but barely thought about it once it was
apparent we were under a tunnel for five minutes. This is how it needs to be.
I once wasn't so scared. I once traveled at every opportunity I was given.
My husband and I walked up the flight of stairs from the Bart and were
greeted by a beautiful, sunny, cool San Francisco day. We checked in at our
boutique hotel, the Hotel Vitale, and suddenly I wanted to do the bike ride we had planned for Saturday right then. I think it was adrenaline.
We hopped on our rented bikes and pedaled across the Golden
Gate bridge. I found that part anti-climatic. Crowded, noisy, passed by a few
locals in biking gear who I thought were asses for riding so fast through such
a crowd. The masses departed for cocktails and food around Saulsalito. We were alone. We kept on biking.
We didn't talk much. It was safer to bike single file. I was
lost in my thoughts. I long and appreciate moments when I can be outside,
working, lost in my thoughts. I marveled at the quaintness of Mill Valley, the
beauty of San Francisco off in the distance. The kids playing and the beautiful
bike trails. I thought of our own bike trails in LA. Marred with homeless
people, gang bangers and people having sex (I've seen all those things). We
ferried back to the city after 24 miles and headed out for a delicious
dinner near Russian Hill.
My husband gave me a beautiful diamond bracelet. We split
a bottle of wine and ate spectacular food. We are so damn lucky, I know.
Saturday we were a bit hungover and not sure exactly what
to do with ourselves.
Everything had been so quaint and perfect the day before, I
was irritated. Not sure if I could share with my husband what was bothering me.
What's wrong, he asked, while we sat in our hotel room.
A beautiful view of the bridge behind us.
"I'm sorry," I said, "But, you know, it's just that it's hard to
feel romance after 10 years of marriage and frankly sometimes I wish I could
just live a thousand lives and fuck a lot of different people and live a lot of
I had been staring out the window for awhile, jealous of the
parents pushing their kids to the fabulous market, thinking we should live
somewhere flat. We always live on hills in Los Angeles. Plus, it's the hit-and-run capital of the world, yet I kept thinking our lives would be better if
we lived somewhere with somewhere that was flat.
My husband didn't get mad. His response was typical, and why
I married him and have stayed.
I know, he said. He told me how while he was at his reunion at Harvard, just a few weeks back, he was surrounded by some very successful,
interesting people . Yet none of them lived a thousand lives. They only got to
live their one life. They only got to experience so much.
I countered with, "But what about all those people on
Facebook who say, 'I knew he was the one' or 'he's the best,' etc."
We rolled our eyes and talked about how maybe some people
really feel that way.
Yet, we also know people who made grand pronouncements of
love and are really fighting like cats and dogs off Facebook.