I miss my boyfriend
And weird things happened in Seattle. Those American Express commercials kept popping up at the exact moments I would be pining most painfully for my ex-boyfriend SF. The ones where Kate Winslet and Robert DeNiro are walking around London and New York, respectively talking about “My Town”? I’d see those commercials – especially the Kate Winslet one, because it’s London and she’s my non-sexual girl crush – and I get all… weepy. I’d think about MY American Express commercial. MY town. MY boyfriend, San Francisco. Me, On the #3 bus, in my black fleece, unshowered, coming from the gym to MY “home” in Pacific Heights. And being slightly crazy from my painful break-up and too much time sitting in a windowless room writing Lottery headlines, I took my seeing these as a sign of some sort.
So I paid attention to the signs. I started thinking about my friends. My city. My life there. And about all the stupid little things I was missing. I thought about this as I heated up my Lean Cuisine every night. And I started to get antsy. My extra lbs. should come from an authentic Mission-style burrito, not some $2 sale-item frozen entree. My over-carbing should come from the white rice of the freshest, most melt-in-your-mouth sushi a person could ever partake in. My extra calories from a bottle of wine that I buy in a corner store, that I can walk to in less than 10 seconds in my pajamas if I so choose and no one will be the wiser, a bottle of Seghesio Sangiovese that, for $18.99, is a steal in Northern California because it’s bottled 55 minutes from my doorstep. Or from a skinny double mocha where everybody really DOES know my name - since the LAST time I was unemployed. The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Fillmore, Cuppa Joe on Sutter. Some random place on Van Ness. Free wireless. People who could give a shit if I sat there all day reading a book. What could be more beautiful and intimate than coffee and free wireless with my boyfriend?
Here’s the deal. I want to walk down a street where I can see an 80 –year old transvestite. I want to see a random pyramid of cheerleaders “cheering for life” in the Castro and not really understand why adults wear cheerleading outfits to do such a thing. I want to see some naked people running. I want to be the naïve southern girl who walks through a drug deal on Geary St. at 9 am. I want to ride on a bus that starts where the beautiful, married people live in the Marina and ends up where the gritty, alone people live in a neighborhood I don’t even know. I want to run the Lyon St. stairs until my legs collapse and sweat out every preservative from every frozen dinner I’ve ever consumed.
So, I made a decision. I’m breaking up with you, Seattle. It’s not you. It’s me. Really. I need to make a go of things with my boyfriend, San Francisco. At least for a little while. I’ll keep London as my mistress boyfriend. A dirty whore Daniel Cleaver type whose booty call I’ll gladly answer when he comes calling until I have the chance to date him exclusively.
Goodbye, Seattle. I think you need a less complicated woman to make you happy. I hope we can still be friends.