You never know when your eyes flutter open in the morning and you fling your feet onto the floor the weirdness the day has in store. Like I said, it’s the last two weeks on insanity in my day job right now and as we’ve all got to work weekends, the staff (all four of us) get to pick a weekday to take off. My day was yesterday and I looked forward to catching up on both my mental and physical health, agreeing to meet Tim the Trainer for a session in Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields.
You’d think Tim would go easy on me, what with it being my first official post-drunk session with him. As far as I’m concerned, if I can’t have any martinis, I don’t need to do any lunges. But nope, Tim had me running around the track like I was running for my life. He discovered that the best way to get me to run is to promise that if I caught up, I could hit him.
Anyway, as I was forced to run (again, something I would not do were I being chased by a psycho with an axe), this huge bodybuilder with weights on his wrists and ankles emerges from his pushups on a bicycle rack and says, “Lisa!”
Um, no. I’m Beth.”
“Oh yeah, Beth! Of course. I knew that! What’s up, girl!?!? I’m Joe’s friend!”
Random, muscley gay in a public park who knows Joe?
Sounds about right.
Tim and I jogged on. “Do you know that guy?”
“No. At least not sober.”
Tim then forced me to sprint to some destination miles ahead and I reached it, throwing my elbows down on my knees and sticking my head between my legs. Birds squawked away in fear from my labored breathing and disheveled fly-aways. You know who wasn’t afraid on me? This weird Thai dude with those little running shorts with the side slits showing off his muscular, tan, old man thighs.
“Running good for you!” He screamed at us.
Tim, not winded in the least responded, “Yeah!”
”Great day for run!”
I may have glanced at him with disdain. After all, I am exercising. No one is allowed to look/address/mock me. Does shaman hair not know the rules?
“We run today! We eat good food!”
What the fuck is this guy talking about? Tim screamed back at him, “We sure do! That’s what it’s all about!”
Is this a trick, a ploy? Because I’ve never wanted to run so bad in my life, just to get myself away from this stupid conversation. Finally done with training, I hopped in my car and decided to take myself to the movies. The Century 20 Theater in Daly City is fairly anonymous. Parking is abundant and free and it’s so massive, you can really sneak from movie to movie and no one cares. Since I was already in the Sunset, I drove down there and settled in for a 12:45 viewing of The Hangover. There was quite a cast of characters heading to the movies in the middle of a Tuesday. My theater was filled with a loud-whispering elderly couple, a few random singles and ‘The Bros.’ There were at least three of these straight man “couples” and HAND TO GOD, they all sat with one chair between them, providing what my grandmother would call ‘room for the Holy Spirit.’ I’d heard tell of this straight man habit, refusing to sit next to one another at the movies lest legs touch. I’d just never seen it with my own eyes before.
The Bros were hella into The Hangover, as was I, although perhaps for different reasons. While yes, there is a touch of the douche, Bradley Cooper in that black suit with the tan and the unbutton and…my stars.
Anyway, the movie was just about over when all of a sudden, this light flashes in the distance. I thought someone had taken a picture of the audience, that’s what it looked like. The light flashed again, coming from a corner above the movie screen. And then, flash again. Others began to notice.
And then faster. Flash, flash, flash!
The flash began to flicker as the movie on the screen faded to black and the lights came on. Over the groans and “What the fucks!” from the masses, a loudspeaker announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, may we have your attention. The fire alarm has been activated and we ask that you calmly leave the theater and find the nearest exit.”
Cue mayhem. Everyone leapt to their feet and, I kid you not, panicked, pushing and shoving their way to the door. Not that I wish to die in a towering inferno in Daly City, but I’d already run that morning.
Film aficionados were flooding out of all 20 theaters and I was having none of it. I figured there was 10 minutes of this movie left and I certainly wasn’t going to stand around with 200 people waiting for a refund on my $8.75.
The movie theater was on fire. I was going home.
Brock and I decided to spend the evening enjoying another “salon des bon mots” at Spruce, so I went home, wrote my Culture Blog and took a shower. With my pink silk kimono over my ripped jeans (seriously, I had to mention this, I’m so pleased with this look), I picked Brock up, parking along a little alley near his apartment.
“Oh, I can’t believe where you’ve parked!” Brock said, sliding into the passenger seat. “A pizza boy was pistol whipped here last week. Like, right here.”
Terrific. I sped the hell out of there and across town, into Spruce. We found two marvelous seats at the bar and debated what to order.
“You know,” confessed Brock. “I’ve never been to Le Club.”
“You want to go to Le Club?”
“Well, yeah. Unless you think it would be a trigger. I’d hate for me to push you off the wagon.”
“We can go, sure.”
“Can we get in?”
Yeah, Brock. We can get in.
After a flawless dinner and what Brock would describe as “breezy” conversation, we headed over to Nob Hill and into Le Club. I haven’t been back there since knocking back a good 11 martinis on a Monday night. And a bottle of champagne. And shots during poker in the game room with people who claim to be models in Milan and then demanding they be kicked out. I really didn’t know if I could return to my favorite party spot without my old school, scene causing, making out with the bus boy alcoholic antics.
Turns out I can! Oh, how I can!
Cassidy fixed me up with a “virgin sacrifice” and Brock with a martini, told us about his tourism ideas for the swingers set and introduced us to Rupert, the Windsor knot at the end of the bar who reads my Culture Blog.
Yes, Le Club. I still love you.
Around 11, Brock and I threw on our pashminas and headed home, locking arms and walking to the car.
“That was just marvelous!”
“I know! What fun!”
“Rupert’s our new friend!”
“You had cider in a champagne glass!”
I dropped off my beloved Brock, felt a twinge guilty for Le Club cheating on Melissa and headed home. What a day, I thought as I dropped my bag on the dining room table. Public park strangers, running and push-ups, flaming and evacuated movie theaters, breezy burgers at the bar of Spruce and my Le Club Come Back…I was ready to collapse. This day of leisure really took it outta me.
But…oh my god! OH MY GOD! TherealhousewivesofnewjerseyisonanditsFIGHTNIGHT!!!!!