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Sea Hag
Attended Ship Wreck Island
Lives in Lady Emotion Beach
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Sea Hag

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Sea Hag

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A story about searching for love, everywhere and anywhere, in the big city.....
Have you ever thought that your romantic life might be vastly improved by switching teams? ; Ever fantasized about joining the lesbians driving U-hauls to their first dates? ; After mastering the art of dating unavailable men, and finding myself mid-life, partnerless and still searching for love, the idea had certainly crossed my mind. ; Perhaps another women would be better suited as a partner for the committed relationship that n
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Humor on humor.  Please enjoy.
I'm rooting for Oakland. ; Although she's forever overshadow
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Not everything that happens during a breakup is the stuff of tragic tales.  For example, loosing my appetite for months after being dumped gave me a much needed kick start dropping that "comfort" weight I'd put on during my long running relationship.  When my depression diet had done all it could, I decided to handle the rest the old fashioned way.  I laid off the proverbial bonbons and soap operas and got my buxom bum to the gym.  Sure, in the beginning I had to do a bit of self bargaining to get myself there, but after awhile, I was completely addicted to the endorphins; not to mention the new budding muscles I was discovering in my arms and legs.  Perhaps more importantly, I quickly found that gaining physical strength similarly affected my emotional state as well.  Before too long, melancholy theatrics were a thing of the past and a new life story had begun; one that had me feeling like there just might be a happy ending after all.

I'm not a morning person, so I frequented an afternoon weight training class taught by a no nonsense gay with boot camp demeanor.  Generally speaking, he seemed downright pissed at us - sputtering weakly through reps as he chided our general wimpiness - but I didn't mind his tough love approach.  Exercise was meant to be difficult; and toughing it out was a part of the process.  While I rallied for the difficult session ahead, I would often amuse myself watching the class which came before; a room full of uncoordinated, scarlet faced people gyrating somewhat lewdly to Latin music.  All in all, an embarrassing spectacle from my estimation.  As the classes shifted, and we serious weight lifters and our stern instructor took the place of these drenched, smiling dancers, I watched with mild disgust as students rushed into a line to hug their sweat soaked teacher, Don Julio.  Really?  Blech!  A bunch of star struck, smitten women hot for teacher.  This was my take on Zumba and I wanted none of it.  

But the next week, I had trouble sleeping.  Finding myself awake hours before my regular class would begin and restless for the gym, I think sleep deprivation must have gotten the best of me.  I decided to bypass my inhibitions, go to Zumba, and check out what all this fuss was about first hand.  Trouble was, I soon found out taking Don Julio's class was no easy task; requiring getting my name on a lengthy list, and braving a line of pushy women eager to claim territory on the dance floor.  Gym personnel were given the formidable task of managing the unruly group; the threat of mutiny quit real in the growing pandemonium of rustling sweatpants and squeaking tennis shoe rubber.  As I was pushed from behind by a Chinese woman half my size and twice my age, I started to question my decision to come.  But it was too late to turn back.  Once the doors swung open, these aggressive Zumbaholics charged, carrying me along in their wake.  Several arguments erupted in the aftermath as groups of allied ladies fell into turf disputes.  My gawd!  These ladies were behaving like this an Usher concert, not an exercise class.

Once hard battles had been fought and won, I found myself sandwiched unhappily into the back most corner of the room.  Though it was nearly ten after, there was still no teacher in sight and the anticipation was palpable.  When at long last Don Julio showed up, he looked like some short, less attractive B Boy version of Mario Van Peebles.  Was this really him?  The man these ladies were so hot for?  I was not impressed with the package or lack of punctuality.  My classmates, however, were undisturbed by his tardiness.  Rather than annoyance, he was met by a cheering crowd of grateful, eager dancers.  He said nothing; simply put the music on and began to dance; everyone easily falling into step all around me.  I was a fish out of water.  Sadly, from my corner, I could barely see what was happening, let alone follow the foreign movements.  So I sussed out the best little booty shaker in my vicinity and did my best to keep up with her.  As I moved clumsily through Salsa and Cumbia inspired routines, I noticed the usual suspects from weight training gathering outside, curiously watching me through the glass doors.  Ugh!  Now who was red faced?  With an exasperated puff of air I blew my bangs from my eyes, pin pointed the clock, and started counting the minutes till this nonsense was over and I could leave.   

As the next song ended to more jubilation from the crowd, suddenly everything changed.  Don Julio reoriented his position in the room, and just like that, my shitty little spot in the corner had become beach front property to the wavelike undulations of our smooth as silk instructor.  Ok, sure, I had to admit, this guy had some suavemente moves, but whatever.  All I cared about was finally being able to see well enough to actually follow the choreography.  Step ball change, with a pelvic roll, and a thrust.  It took almost as much effort to learn the sequence as to fight off my embarrassment to be doing these crazy moves in public, under harsh light, without the aid of several alcoholic beverages.  And then it got even worse.  

As Pitbull's Hip Hop anthem "Pause" pounded away over the speakers, Don Julio began rolling his hips around like the bastard love child of Elvis and Rico Suave.  Soon, he was making his way through the expectant ladies, hoping to be the next one flirted with.  When he stopped in front of me, I was mortified.  I dropped my eyes from his gaze, but now there was nothing to do but watch his hands lifting his shirt while caressing his own body, slowly exposing the brown, smooth, sweaty skin covering the rippling six pack of his abs.  Um, did it just get really fucking hot in here?  I looked around me for some sort of support or at least a witness.  I almost felt like I shouldn't be watching this.  Was this a gym class or a scene from Magic Mike?   I panicked and looked back up, but now he was starring right into my eyes, mouthing the words to the ridiculous song; "Look, I got what you need to get you hooked/ I steal all your hearts I'm a crook."   I pretended to be unaffected, but truth be told, I was giddy as a school girl.  Had he lingered I might have accidentally yelled out "take it off!"  Perhaps nobody else could tell, but exertion alone hadn't caused my face to flush like this.  Had this man straight up seduced me in the middle of a Zumba class?

After that, I was hooked.  I found out where and when Don Julio was teaching and made sure I was there too.  Some may call this stalking but it passed as a commendable commitment to my physical fitness.  Each week, I made sure I was in the front row with a look that said I was ready to take out anybody who challenged me.  And soon, much to my delight, my initiative paid off.  I was finally getting the hang of this dance style, learning lots of crazy new ways to pump my abdomen, pop my chest, or ride and lasso an imaginary horse.  Don't we all need a few of these moves in our repertoire?  And all the while I was lavished with plenty of special attention from the object of my desire; both on and off the dance floor.  When class was over, I'd slip into my bikini for a soak in the rooftop hot-tub, and before too long, Don Julio would break away from his entourage of devoted Zumba groupies to come chat me up over my steamy bath.  Just add bubbles and you had the sudsy makings of a dishy new daytime romance.  This was all going just according to plan.  

But the plot thickens.  Needless to say, I wasn't the only lady in class with a hidden agenda.  Soon enough, I was as familiar with the routines as the expected cast of other regulars vying for some of Don Julio's Dance Fever.  Perhaps most noteworthy of the bunch, a mother and daughter duo who never missed a class.  The two were hard to ignore, wearing color coordinated workout ensembles; kinda like a pair of Zumba super heroes.  The pretty young Latina was never without a fully made up face, and her mother sported a signature braid like a thick rope down her back.  Wonder twin powers activate!  But all kidding aside, I have to admit, at first I admired their close family bond.  I hadn't worn a matching outfit with my mom since I was eight.  There was something kind of sweet about this display of familial pride.  I fancied it a cultural difference, both charming and wholesome.  But then the music started; and let me tell you, my musings on innocence flew right out the window.  

If this young woman was a super hero, her super power was Salsa dancing.  Miss thing started whipping her hair back and forth, adding a saucy bump and grind to each dance sequence, working it out like a Solid Gold dancer.  I don't want to sound like a prude here folks, but I just don't think I could shimmy and shake it like that in front of my mom.  Her moves were sizzling hot and nearly screamed sex.  If this had really been a dance off, I'd like to believe I held my own for a song, maybe two.  But let's face it, I didn't stand a chance.  Maybe I've just seen too many episodes of So You Think You Can Dance, but it was clear; this hot little tamale had me beat.  Not to mention that her mom looked like she could beat me up, or at least put me in a choke hold with that braid.  Histrionics aside, I accepted that I was not only outmatched, I'd been out-Zumbaed!   

Several months after I'd stopped frequenting Don Julio's classes, I ran into another regular who was eager to dish to me about the latest scoop.  "Did you hear?"  Turns out, Don Julio had been dating a fellow Zumba instructor the entire time; although he'd never mentioned a girlfriend to me while we flirted by the jacuzzi.  But then; escandelo!  News broke that the well loved teacher had been having an affair with a student.  No surprise; his paramour was non other than that little salsa kitten herself!  Thus, after some public turmoil at the gym, Don Julio was forced to announce to a room of crying women that he would no longer teach classes at that location.  Guess I'd dodged a bullet there.  But lucky for me, I'm no less fickle than any other daytime drama queen.  It wasn't long before I'd lost interest in getting the guy.  And somewhere in there, while trying to shake my money maker into Don Julio's heart, I'd fallen out of love with that Latin Lathario and madly in love with Zumba.      

Over time, I branched out and took many different Zumba classes from a variety of great teachers; each with their own flair and style.  Going to class felt like taking a fabulous tropical vacation, and I couldn't wait for these lovely escapes.  As encouraged by my instructors, I left my stress at the door and spent the next hour of my life on a little international dance journey; imagining myself wading thru the tall dry grasses of the African Sahara; stomping under the Amazonian canopy, dirty dancing in a sultry Havana tavern, or giving Jay-Lo a run for her money as a fly girl in a Hip Hop video. Just as Zumba had transformed Don Julio into a pseudo celebrity and his student into the ultimate vixen; dance had the power to transform ordinary people or situations into something spectacular.  Once the music began, there were dozens of epic exotic adventures to be had.  As the heat and energy heightened, cheers emanating from the excited clan, we were like Zumba warriors.  Sure maybe before and after class, we were still as different as could be.  But there, in the middle of a gym doing Zumba, we men and women of all sizes, ages, and races were one human family; transfigured into a bumping, grinding, sweat soaked tribe once again.

OK, this might sound downright delusional to you.  Perhaps you're thinking, poor girl with a broken heart has gone and lost her mind.  I'll admit, maybe I've let my romantic imagination run wild a bit, but my response to that is, have you done Zumba yet?  And if not, what are you waiting for?  Why not join the 14 million people who are responding to the simple Zumba philosophy of "health and happiness and of loving everything you do; especially your workout"  No need to suffer at the gym when you can wiggle and strut your way to fitness; or as we Zumbaholics like to say; "Ditch the work out; join the party".  Sure I still like to lift weights, but I've left the boot camp behind.  True, now I'm one of those red faced people gyrating lewdly to Latin music; and you know what?  I wouldn't have it any other way.  I think my friend Angie put it best when she said, "In Zumba, everyone is a star."  I might look like a mess to the people looking in, but those of us in there dancing know the truth.
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Sea Hag

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My most read piece to date with well over 2000 hits.  The cat's outta the bag kids and the results are in.
; ; ; Are most women size queens? ; Recently I polled an informal group of lady friends to ask a very big question; when it comes to choosing a man, how much does penis size really matter? ; The results may surprise you. ; Not one of the women I spoke to admitted they'd dismiss a man for being too small, but several claimed there was definitely such a thing as not small enough. ; Several pantomimed frightened faces after the big reveal was bigge...
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More snark from the Bay Area's surliest Seahag.....
Beach Blanket Babylon, America's longest running musical revue, has something for everyone. ; The frenetic pacing and pop-off one liners, make it a great choice for the short attention span generation, or the out of touch grandmother alike. ; Granny won't get the references, but will be surprised that slap-stick is making a come back, and revel in that dash of golden age old Hollywood glamour. ; This show has the camp of burlesque and
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This is my latest Blog entry.  A humorous, soul searching look at women grappling with their sexuality.  Enjoy.
From Red Light to Spot Light; Pole Dancing Goes Mainstream
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Sea Hag

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"There's no way I'm going to this" I told my friend Amy.  It wasn't just that I was freshly dumped, and feeling tender about approaching middle age without a family of my own.  I had also spent the last twenty years working as a waitress for a living; not quit the expected career outcome of a former gate student.  And to top it off, in my spare time I was performing belly dance and burlesque in San Francisco nightclubs.  For many of my conservative classmates still living in the valley, I might as well say I'm a stripper and call it a day.  I'd already dealt with the small scale version of this reconnecting on Facebook, fielding questions like "What happened to you?" from those who disapproved of my lifestyle.  The very idea of meeting scornful schoolfellows face to face sent shivers down my spine.  I didn't have a husband, kids, a house, or even a decent car; the very hallmarks of adulthood.  So what did I have to show for myself?  

    High school had been socially challenging.  A rocky childhood had left me an introverted and insecure teen, outwardly rebellious and inwardly distrustful of people and their institutions.  As a result, I never felt like I fit in, and truth be told, I still didn't.  Go to my high school twenty year reunion?  No.  Absolutely not.  But when the day came I had a sudden change of heart.  For one thing, Amy had offered a sort of compromise.  "Screw the reunion" she'd suggested, "who wants to pay for that kind of awkwardness and bad food?  We're all going to meet at a downtown bar instead, and eventually everyone from the reunion is gonna end up there anyway."  This idea really appealed.  It was more like crashing the reunion than attending it.  I could handle that.

    But the fun of being a party crasher wasn't the only reason I'd changed my mind.  It had dawned on me that the people we went to school with are a lot like family; we didn't choose them, and we may not even like them, but for better or worse, they were there with us during those formative years - through acne and braces - watching the interplay of forces that eventually made us what we are twenty years later.  As such, our one time classmates are important mirrors in our lives; offering a unique perspective from which to reflect on who we have become, from the vantage point of who we have been.  Few people are better suited to witness the epic scope of our lives.  The fact that I was at a tender point in my own life's journey actually made this a perfect moment to take a long look at my path, by taking a short detour down memory lane.  I realized I was curious what time would tell about me.

      Thus I changed my tune and attempted to bolster my confidence with the following reminders.  It's true, I'd always been a little different from the others, and probably still would be; but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.  I was, after all, the reigning "Most Individualistic" student of 1990.  Didn't I kinda owe it to everyone else to keep representing "that" girl; the one that was always just a little left of center?  As I drove my city beater into the valley from which it came, I stared into my reflection in the rear view mirror and reasoned, "You don't have to do this you know."  But she merely stared back at me, nervous but resolute; we were going in and there was no turning back now.
    
       So I headed into my hometown, and bellied up at the bar with Amy, waiting for the reunion to come to us.  Looking back now, I'll admit that perhaps drinking all afternoon is not the way to go when you plan on having intelligent conversations with people you haven't seen in a long time; especially if you hope to convince them your life isn't in total shambles.  Good thing for me, by the time the reunion aftermath rolled in; I wasn't the only one who'd been indulging in libations.  Yet despite copious cocktails, at the sight of my old associates, I'll admit, my teenage anxiety came crashing in around me.  I was frozen on my barstool, convincing myself with a cruel interior dialogue that I would surely be shunned, if not publicly ridiculed when suddenly Cindy Middleton called out my name and threw her arms around my neck.  

    As cheerful and sweet as ever, Cindy launched right in as if we hadn't missed a day.  "You're in SF now right?  Doing some sort of performance I think?"  There wasn't even a hint of admonishment in her tone, so I relaxed and filled her in a bit.  Much to my surprise, she lavished me with accolades.  "I look at all your photos on Facebook.  You look so glamourous for your shows!" she offered, adding, "You always were so creative."  Wow.  OK, not what I was expecting.  

    "Is that what you do full time?" she wondered.  I tried to make the word "waitress" sound as appealing as I could, mentioning the name of the restaurant I work in as an afterthought.  "Are you kidding?  I've read all about that place.  It's a hot spot for celebrities right?  With a famous Chef?"  True, I wasn't Flo taking orders while smacking on gum in a greasy spoon, but bragging about my job was a novel experience.  "Yeah" I nodded, slightly embarrassed.  "Gosh, I've always wanted to eat there" she gushed, "Maybe one of these days."      
    
    "What about you?" I asked, desperate to take the attention off myself.  Cindy explained that she worked as a hairdresser and was now living in Fresno.   "I really envy you living in the City!" she said, telling me of her lifelong love affair with San Francisco.  "Wish I could afford it, but living there is just too expensive" she sighed.  "I decided I wanted to buy a home, so I ended up staying in the valley."  Did I note a hint of apology in her explanation?  Maybe I wasn't the only one who was worried I'd be judged for my choices.  "It's true" I agreed, "By living in the city, I've pretty much given up on the idea of owning my own home; especially now that I'm single" I told her.

    "What about love?" I asked.  "Married?  Relationship?"  "Ugh, don't ask" she groaned.  I recently ended an engagement.  Turns out; he was already married!  Can you believe that?  I was supporting this guy too; bought him all kinds of clothes……. paid the mortgage, everything.   One day, he went home to visit his family in Eastern Europe, and just never came back.  When I called him, I thought it was his mother who answered. Turns out, it was his wife."  I was stunned.  Sure, I'd just had a breakup too, but damn!  It wasn't like that.  "Wow, I'm sorry."   "Oh well" she chimed in with a resilient chuckle, "What are ya gonna do?  I still have my home, and I"ll get over it."  

    As I ended my chat with Cindy, I had several epiphanies.  Once upon a time, I too wished I would someday live in San Francisco, and now it was actually my home.  True I didn't have a "career" in the traditional sense of the word.  But I did have a job at a cool spot that afforded me a life in the city I loved, and gave me enough time off to pursue my artistic interests.  Looking at it again through Cindy's eyes, I realized that perhaps I'd been a little hard on myself.  Sure, my old friend was a bit drunk and most likely just being nice, but after several more minutes listening to her describing my life as fun and exciting, I was really starting to feel more like a rockstar than a reject.  I was so thankful we'd reconnected; if only for a moment.  Perhaps attending this reunion wasn't so bad after all.  

    Soon, however, I was sharing a table with the ever popular, miss Jennifer Jones.   We'd been friends in 7th and 8th grade, but by the time we'd reached High School, we existed in such different social spheres we might as well have lived on different planets.  Encouraged by my conversation with Cindy, and getting more intoxicated by the second, I was ready to put my fears aside and shove off my status as a social outcast.  But regardless of how many times I looked in Jennifer's direction, she refused to make eye contact with me.  I knew I shouldn't let this get under my skin; but it was starting to feel like high school all over again.  She wouldn't have acknowledged my existence then, why now?  Bracing myself for rejection, I decided to force a conversation.  At my clumsy greeting, she turned towards me with a somewhat exasperated sigh and a roll of the eyes and finally gave a dour "Hello."  
    
    "What's up Jennifer, Long time…… how are you?" I asked, feeling stupid.  Small talk is already just about the most gauche thing I can imagine; and twenty years later small talk with someone who clearly doesn't want to have a conversation with you is in a category of social awkwardness all of it's own.  Where do you start?  What do you say?  It seems what would be expected is a play by play of our life achievements, a body count of kids, and a declaration of how happy we are.  That was exactly the conversation I was hoping to avoid.  When Jennifer answered with something far more deep and intimate, I was absolutely shocked.  

    Seeming somewhat fragile, she began filling me in on the story of her life.  She'd married her High School sweetheart, and had never left our tiny hometown.  In the years that followed she had two sons.  While the story started off sweetly enough, it soon took a turn for the worse.  Jennifer's first love developed a serious drinking problem, and after many hard years, had run her family into ruin.  After a messy divorce, he'd then tragically committed suicide, leaving her with a huge amount of debt, and two unruly boys to raise alone.  She admitted, "I never thought I would be this kind of parent: but I just can't control them.  My kids run right over me, and there's nothing I can do about it……"  Eventually, she did meet someone else; a kind man whom she loved; but their relationship had faced challenges.  She admitted to feeling unworthy of finding love again and guilty about bringing anyone new into this admittedly difficult situation.  
    
    I was floored.  I knew only too well the pain alcoholism inflicts on a family; having grown up with a drunk mother, but I'd never imagined that Jennifer Jones, who had seemed to have one of those magically perfect lives, would ever share a similar fate with me.  Earlier, I had assumed that Jennifer still considered herself too good to talk to me.  It had never occurred to me that maybe she was the one who felt insecure about exposing herself to me.   While I was genuinely touched that she'd chosen to share such intimate details of her life, I had to wonder, why me?  Perhaps she remembered childhood stories about my shaky family and felt that I would relate.  Maybe it was the Cosmo she'd been glumly nursing.  But could it have been my status as an outsider that made her feel like she could say anything without fear of being judged?  After some heartfelt words we parted ways, not necessarily as friends, but as two people who had shared an honest moment; one that had really made me reconsider both my own situation, and my assumptions about others.

    I was still reeling from this dose of reality when an unfamiliar voice sang out my name and suddenly Blake Roberts was sitting beside me asking, "How's life?"  I looked at him incredulously.  "By that do you mean my whole life?" I asked, bewildered, "Because, if I'm not mistaken, we've never spoken in our lives."  Blake chuckled and offered me a drink.  "I guess you're right" said the varsity swimmer, and big man on campus who, before tonight, I was certain didn't even know I was alive.  "Doesn't mean we can't start now right?"  With that, the best all around, and the all around geek toasted to our new friendship and began chatting about our very different lives.  

    While I was a working class artist, residing in a city, single and without kids, Blake had married the "expected" girl, had two children, and moved to a small town on the East Coast to focus on a well paying career and caring for his family.  He showed me pictures of a pretty wife, a beautiful house by the water, and two adorable kids.  I described what it was like to live with 16 people in an art collective, and the backstage antics of my world as a performer in variety shows.  Then as now, we shared little in common, but nonetheless we had an easy report.  Perhaps rendering each other's gardens greener, each of us seemed to enjoy existing vicariously through one another's  stories.  Still, I was slightly taken aback when Blake offered this; "Don't get me wrong, I love my kids…… and my wife for that matter.  But being married and having a family?" he shrugged his shoulders, "I don't know.  It's hard!  And having kids takes a lot of money and a lot of work.  What we have is a lifestyle, and it requires a substantial income.  I'm lucky if I even get to see my family I work so much to afford them."  I sighed, "I would have given anything to marry my X and have kids, but it didn't work out that way."  "Guess we always want what we don't have" he said with a grin, raising his glass to mine again.  And with that, we toasted, and he bid me farewell; heading off to continue circulating around the room.

    Perhaps he was right, I pondered, knocking back the rest of my cocktail just as Amy pulled me onto the dance floor.  As we boogied down to classic hits from our era, I overheard other bar patrons chortled under their breath, "What's with all the drunk, old people?"  To this I simply laughed.  I guess it was true; twenty years past graduation, well into our rich and varied lives, we weren't kids anymore.  Each of us had a story to tell; and not a single life was without some sort of hardship or regret.  Tomorrow we would go back to our regular routines, but tonight here we were, drunkenly shaking our asses and having a great time like we we were 18 again and didn't have a care in the world.   As the group on the dance floor grew smaller and more faded, Blake came bursting back onto the scene like a ball of energy.  "Where we goin' after this?" he beamed at the exhausted revelers, groaning their refusals.  Most of these folks had kids to wake up with in the morning, and were unaccustomed to late nights.  I, on the other hand, had no pressing obligations; no little ones waiting for me.  "Nobody?" he pushed, not wanting to waste a rare night of freedom.  When it was obvious nobody else was game, and I was decidedly drunk enough to no longer care what the others would think, I finally piped up.  "Well, I have a joint."  "Fantastic!" he exploded, taking my hand as our former classmates looked on in stunned horror.  "Blake Roberts is leaving here with her?  To smoke pot?" I heard one girl say in shock, watching as our most unlikely duo headed out the door.             Soon we were sitting in his parents SUV, hot boxing like Cheech and Chong.  In a cloud of smoke, Blake was recounting a wilder time in his life when he and an ex girlfriend had moved to Mexico on a whim.  "Living on the beach, taking each day as came", he recalled with a dreamy sigh, "that was the most free and happy time in my life."  Suddenly overcome with his revelry, he leaned excitedly into the backseat and pulled something red, white and blue out of the depths of the vehicle.  In a flash, Blake was barechested, removing his polo top and replacing it with an old high school Patriots sweatshirt.  "Still fits!" he stated proudly, as we both pretended to ignore just how snug it had actually become.  As our laughter faded into an overly long silence, I noticed him giving me a funny look, and before I knew what had happened, he'd swooped in and kissed me squarely on the lips.  I think we both sat there slightly shocked for a minute.  And when I smiled and said I'd better go, he didn't disagree.  As I walked away, he called out after me.  "Hey!  Thank you.  This has been the best conversation I've had all evening.  You're a cool girl, and I really enjoyed finally getting to know you."  With that, I kissed my hand and waved goodbye, leaving him staring after me as I disappeared into the night.
    
    It's probably a blessing that there's not a single photo of me from the reunion, or it's after party; no proof that I was ever even there.  What I remember as profound, probably appeared drunken and messy.  Even here.  But regardless, these unlikely conversations enabled me to remember that I actually had realized several of my life goals; to get out of my home town, to live in San Francisco, and to be an artist.   While I romanticized the idea of having a career, a husband, children, or a home, the truth was that no path was necessarily better or easier than another, and each road came with it's own set of costs, challenges and obstacles.  Perhaps I was still different from my peers, but that merely gave me and my life character, and allowed others to interact with me in ways they might not have otherwise.  I had to admit, attending my twenty year reunion was a detour worth taking.  Maybe I'd never been a homecoming queen, but as I headed back SF, crossing the sparkling Bay with the triumphant sky line looming behind, coming home had rarely felt as sweet.  
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