wrapmeinbacon

I did that thing I’ve been trying to do for a few years now: I somehow finagled someone else managing the business and now I have this vast, open expanse in front of me with more options than I could dream.

So, obviously, with more time, I’m creating a food tour of SF for myself. Today, I sought out Limon Rotisserie. The chicken! Oh, the chicken. Shimmy shimmy chicken, shimmy yam, shimmy ya. And then that sauce. And then the chicken. And then the sauce. And then the chicken. Chicken’s tender and the sauce is tangy, like a spiced step up from the yellow sauce at Chicken Kitchen.

With the rest of my time, I decided to try my hand at writing a book. But over the years while I was running the day-to-day of the business, I seem to have restricted myself creatively… in a place where I’ve been stripped of color and life, but not clothes – the least fun of all the options 😦 All the play has drained out, ounce by ounce, and I feel tangled in the thick branches of my thoughts. I need to get the playfulness back. I need to remove the neon blockades I’ve put up to be more normal, diligent. I want to be sillier and braver and stupider.

Over the last few years, I’ve censored so many parts of myself in the name of self-improvement. I read a book a week, I meditate, I drink less, I eat healthily, I work out 4-5 times a week, I try desperately to only say what I mean, I try to add focus to my life, I try to add one brave thing a day that I feel uncomfortable doing. It all sounds good, but involves a lot of rules about what I can and cannot do. And I wonder if, in a quest to be better, all I’ve done is just clog playful and loving avenues. How dangerous.

This censorship seems to be playing into relationships too. I feel the anxiety rising like smoke, slowly, unbearably. It just lurks in different corners of my body, and any mention of not doing this relationship right makes it jump up, caught in my throat. How many men have I turned away, men who are everything I could ask for, and I dismiss them in the name of “something missing”? WTF does that mean? Or does something deep in me know exactly what I want, and is patiently pushing everything else away. Worse, am I just scared of being that vulnerable.

I think the thing holding me back in this relationship is that my emotions have always terrified me – they’re quick and powerful and overwhelming, like a genie that erupts out of an accidentally rubbed lamp. They’ve ruined relationships.

I think I’m wiser now, but that emotional power hasn’t gone away, I’ve just paper mâchéd it clumsily with broad ideas on how I should be – independent, low key (Ha! Low key. I am a dumbo.). But I don’t think I can love someone without unleashing it a little. If I keep approaching everything I say or he says with how I ought to be, the emotional part doesn’t come out. And even I know that while it’s scary, it’s also the best part of me.

Maybe I’ll just keep eating. Maybe the answer’s in chicken? Probably the answer’s in the chicken.

Pardon me, I’m a bit emotional today. On this day, three years ago, I bought a one way ticket to San Francisco.

I never knew you could love a city. I mean – not just the things in it, but everything – the culture, the land, the whole thing. I never knew you feel protective of a city, appreciative of it. But I love SF with all its flaws, even the snobby people. SF promises that when you feel complacent, it’ll show you mountains and oceans that fill you with awe. And if you feel something weighing on you, it’ll send a man wearing a hippo costume down the street, just cause, on a Tuesday. I think it’s so easy to not feel gratitude most days, except here. Because here, every day is fresh and strange and wondrous and beautiful and geeky and silly and thought-provoking and unique. If I could put a ring on a city, it’d be this one.

Last night, I dined at Frances, famous for its Californian cuisine, and it does what the rest of San Francisco does to you – it ambushes you with thoughtful surprises. You think you’re going in there because of the bacon beignets (because, read those two words again, slowly, lovingly, without wanting to kiss the chef – I dare you). And then what knocks you off your high stool is the lemon pavlova. How tart and sweet and unique, and how it made me want to sing and dance, which is fascinating considering how I had just been stuffed with burrata mushrooms and tender duck. But that’s what this city does; it just kindly serves you adrenaline and love, because it believes that people can do incredible things, and armed with that faith, the people here actually do incredible things. It’s amazing what a little push or a lemon pavlova can do.

First, my apologies, my dear reader. I realized only recently how I have betrayed you.

One morning, the morning before I left on my sabbatical, I stumbled upon the shop next to my house. In all my years, never have I experienced bacon like this bacon. What a wondrous food, and how proud it makes me to write in this blog. Thick, not fatty (weird that I just thought about Beyonce?), sweet and peppery, and glazed with something so miraculous, I didn’t even want to ask them for the recipe. Whoever has created this has no doubt spent years mastering bacon, experimenting, improving, creating – and has now given us the meats of his labor. I accomplished much on my sabbatical: I decided the direction for my current company, set the mission for my next, carefully molded what I’d like my next few years to look like personally – and while the people I was with played a large role – it all started with the bacon.

Before that, I was relationship-hurting a bit. A man told me I seemed closed, and I suppose I just struggle with how to remain loving and understanding and protect myself.

But as I think about it, I don’t know that I need to protect myself. Sometimes I talk as if I am made of flesh and they carry knives, but I’d like to think I’m made of titanium and they carry balloons in scary shapes. When I realize that they cannot say or do anything to even mark that titanium, I’ll realize I don’t need protection. Then I could allow everyone and anyone to approach me with their funny shaped balloons, and let them poke and prod to their hearts’ content. Or I could just get out of my head and go get some bacon.

Silicone Valley takes the phrase “fake it till you make it” to a new level. When I first came here, I felt wrought with anxiety every time I spoke to someone; the people were so put together, and used jargon that made their conversations seem like they were beyond my understanding.

Along the way, though, a funny thing happened: I became one of those douchebags. I didn’t even realize it until a friend called me out (thank God for friends like that). Once you speak the language, though, you start to realize everyone is full of it. When you think about the substance of what someone is saying, and can only really find recycled ideas masked in fancy language, that’s bad. What’s scarier is that we all listen to these people. We use them as our compass when choosing a significant other, investing, making career decisions. But most of these people don’t know what they’re talking about.

I get a few calls from reporters asking about how it feels to be an “up and coming female entrepreneur”. Well, silly reporter, I feel like a soy hot dog. I may look alright, but if you know a real hot dog, you know this is not the real deal. Second reporter calls, and wants to know how women can better balance their personal and professional lives. After the fourth reporter called, I realized I stumbled into this territory where I am somehow an expert on women starting businesses. In what backwards universe am I allowed to preach about balance?

But the fascinating part is that this is how it happens – this is how people get to be “experts”. Once a few people call you that word, you start to believe it. Well, before my head swells up too much, I want to try to remember that anything I say in these interviews makes me a soy hot dog. I’ll say all the right things, make my hair and clothes so that I look presentable, but for the record, I’m soy, and ain’t nobody got time for that.

When I peruse a menu, I go through a formulaic process. First, I discard any options with the word “mushrooms”. Family tradition not to eat them, and there are some weird traditions I like to carry on, despite a lack of logic. Second, I look for words that arouse: “balsamic”, “honey”, “fried dough”, etc. Next, I narrow down my options to three – three dishes that would leave my mind and stomach pulsing with pleasure. I ask the waiter what they recommend between the three, and then, regardless of what the waiter said, I choose. It’s as if someone gives me a golden envelope with an immaculate choice – there’s no wavering, no stumbling to indecision. I just know.

I always imagined kind of a similar process for my dating life. But I’ve gotten to that point where I’m just supposed to know, and there’s a deafening silence where conviction is supposed to live. They say people’s personalities change entirely every seven years, and I am tasked with choosing a partner for all of my next eight personalities. Seems unreasonable, no? And yet, it’s the most important decision I’ll ever make. So the fundamental choice I have now lies in what kind of life I want to lead – should it be fun and light and easy, with perhaps less depth, or should it be full of meaning and respect and kindness, with less silliness? And is it strange that I have to choose? What will each of my eight personalities think, and do I simply side with the majority?

The answer, of course, is bifocals. I’m getting old. But also, I need the ability to see what is near and what is far ahead, and how the two could interact. Right now, everything appears blurry and distorted. But if I had bifocals, I would just know. I would have the same conviction I have with a meal. Perhaps I just haven’t seen my balsamic honey glazed fried dough yet. Perhaps in the midst of all the food, where all the other food blends in with one another, looking like obscure Impressionist dots, perhaps right in the middle of that, I would see fried dough with refreshing clarity.

My heart hurts, and I don’t think it has to do with him specifically. I think I just realized I lost a connection. And  I feel myself panicking, my heart rate quickening, my breath shallow, my chest tight, and my head feels as if it’s swelling with hot liquid. And I’m tired. Tired of congratulating myself for being brave and walking away and not settling for good when everyone else does, tired of thinking about the emotional swings in the coming weeks, and positively exhausted thinking about all the dating that will follow, and all the stretched smiles I’ll have to flash throughout them. It’s funny – every time I go through one of these, it’s like it’s the very first time – like I’ve completely forgotten what it’s like. What convenient amnesia.

There are times when you want your mind to be silent, to just rest. Until recently, I don’t think I indulged enough in that and didn’t realize how valuable an impact it has on the rest of my life. It’s no coincidence that many of the activities I love rock my mind into a deep sleep: dancing, listening to music, working out, watching really, really stupid television (Millionaire Matchmaker, you’ve done so much for me), reading, and, recently, cooking. I was looking for things I enjoy, but I didn’t realize what I really enjoy is having a quiet mind, a mind not humming with worry, not indulging in inadequacy, a mind that’s still and focused.

So I’ve embarked on this quest to conquer cooking – but in baby steps. I do refuse to chop an onion. Last time I tried, I had to take three breaks from crying into the onion, and fell asleep during one of the breaks. What’s up with onions? Terrible food, I’ve decided. But what an expansive world this has opened up. And how this transforms my love of food! I’ll make jicama and orange salad with spiced shrimp and Vietnamese Bun Cha. And when you create the food, it just tastes better – you appreciate every melding flavor, every texture, every smell, and how wonderfully fresh it is.

What’s so exciting about San Francisco to me is how deeply involved and passionate people are about whatever they do – each hobby transforms into art. There are cults around rock climbing and there are blues band fanatics and graffiti connoisseurs. And when they enter into this world, they allow it to consume them; their lives are so vastly different from the person next to them, but you’d never know it. So when you walk down the street, you can only imagine what each person is doing at 6 PM today. Yesterday, I went on a tour of the Armory, an S&M porn studio, in the old armory building for the National Guard. These people have dedicated their lives to sex and to expressing whoever or whatever you want to be behind closed doors (or not), to pushing their boundaries to try things like BDSM and role play and exalting the human body. Each pair of eyes lit up when you asked them about their job and explained how it takes them away from how they feel they should act. Isn’t it interesting that we’re all just trying to numb or challenge our minds into submission. I use food, you use sex, we have entirely different lifestyles, but all hoping to reach the same goal. I love that.

There’s an eggs benedict with Canadian bacon on a puff pastry at Dolce Amore. The cafe is a quick walk away from me in the brisk, fresh San Francisco air. When I sit down with my book, the smiley owner greets me as he places silverware atop a glass table containing expensive French artifacts.

Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve started to enjoy myself a little here. To be entirely honest with you, there are still days I shake in my boots when I meet new people. I need to get boots that stop me from shaking. Silly boots I have. And then there are other days, more days than ever before, when I act so bravely, I don’t recognize myself.

My buddy poured his heart out yesterday about a girl he recently loved. It seems everyone has a story about their broken heart, but it never seems hackneyed to me. I hugged him and told him I know. It seems your mind, oddly enough, should choose your match. If only my mind could steer my heart…all would make sense then. But then I suppose I’d never savor those eggs benedict. I’d never have attempted to make Thanksgivingukkah for a boy (and fallen down mid-street, spilling wine all over myself). I’d never have joined flash mobs. I’m here, fortunately or unfortunately, driven by my crazy heart. And I guess I’ll keep going.

My heart tends to swell during the holidays. It’s an overload of friends and family and good eats. Tonight, for instance, my childhood friends and I have our yearly tradition of going to Joe’s Stone Crab to exchange gifts. Sometimes, before a really great dining experience, I just open the menu online and admire it. I think about how in a few hours, I will be gushing without shame over the most delicate lobster I can find. During this salivating experience today, I had a call with my managers, and caught myself saying, “I think we need to write this plan out before moving forward – if you get me the grilled tomatoes, we can make a final call.” This was met with silence, followed by questions about the types of grilled tomatoes I need to make this decision.

Anyhow, along with this lobster and tomatoes, I get the sweetest people. And though they will surely make fun of me for being sappy (a common complaint, and something I will never change), I’ll smother them with kisses and bites on the cheek (you need to reach a pretty special level with me to earn bites).

All I want to do is sit down with everyone, give them uncontrollable kisses and bites on the cheek, and eat some lobster.

Kauai makes you feel trivial, in the best possible way. The Na Pali coast has smoky light creeping through the valleys, cliffs that look like they’re standing on their tiptoes to reach the sky, intricate waterfalls meandering through the lush mountains. It’s the kind of thing that makes you shut up, and realize that something that extraordinary exists. Right around you, there are dolphins swimming, fly fish prancing, and every so often there’s a sea turtle that I imagine is just thinking, “dudeeeeee.”

On the catamaran yesterday, we watched the mountains in awe, snorkeled around them, and on the way back, sheaths of rain pounded the boat. We held onto the bars at the front, each wave tossing our bodies like they were weightless, and I’m not sure I’ve ever had so much fun. Once we went back into the covered area, the co-captain passed around buttered macadamia cookies and Mai Tais. If that’s not a perfect day, I don’t know what is.

But this morning, I woke up a little disturbed. Every so often, I’ll remember the breakup – and then there’s that dancing lava in the pit of my stomach that causes my whole body to feel like it’s on fire, that inconsolable feeling of losing people and the structure in my life. It still completely confounds me that that is a normal part of life…that people do it, voluntarily, all the time. There are times I’ve felt ashamed for still occasionally feeling pain. But I think that for whatever dumb reason, I’m still a little shocked.  If you had told me six months ago that I would not be with the man I thought I would marry, that I would be living in San Francisco, that I would lose and rebuild my business before anyone noticed, that I’d be dating some other dude, I would have looked at you like you’d just told me you hung out with some unicorns. But I’m here, and I think it’s real, and my mind’s still spinning, looping in and out of euphoria and gratitude and sometimes slipping into that pain.

And then I look at those mountains and those waterfalls, and think about how silly I am! I feel everything just melt into a sea of calm. Then I eat a cookie, and I’m good to go. Really, a good mountain and a cookie can fix most things.

As you may have gathered, this past year has been tumultuous. And for my birthday, I’d like to use the idea that things can change so abruptly and so unexpectedly in my favor. I’d like to move nimbly toward independence, toward being a constant in the chaos, and toward maintaining a grace and courage I only recently learned I have.

For my birthday, I am going to eat like a Greek goddess. I am traveling to a spa in Napa with outdoor jacuzzis and unlimited wine. When I lay my head gently back into the water, they will play music from my iPod – underwater. Every hour or so, I’ll get out to taste the fresh cheese and grapes. I am bringing in year 27 with tranquility and cheese and Wyclef.

This year, I want to forgive myself more readily and fully. I want to eat and dance and have great sex. I want to be outside all the time. I want to be deliberate about my relationships and not fall into them. And perhaps most of all, I want to remember that I am responsible for my happiness. If I’m unhappy, I have the obligation to walk away, and if I don’t, shame on me.

To year 26 of my life: good riddance! You brought me to the lowest I’ve ever been, and I feel compelled to say thank you, but bon voyage. Arrivederci. Syonara. PEACE.