I moved to So Cal
Today I moved to Southern California. I mean really moved there--let the place into my being. In a way I never was able to move to Cincinnati, or Tacoma, for that matter.
It was a So Cal day. I spent about three hours in the car; half of it on the phone half of it listening to music probably a bit too loud. I sat in traffic on my way back from Redondo Beach. I drove 240 miles. Some of it faster than my speedometer goes (110 mph)--only on the toll road really early in the morning. And I loved it.
The day was beautiful. The sun was out. The palm trees waved at me from everywhere. The resort where I went to the rhematology conference sat next to giant yahtts with well dressed men in white skipper uniforms. I learned about osteoporisis, fibromyalgia, rhemumatoid arthritis, and osteoarthritis while I crochetted a hat at the end of one of the white-linened tables. I left before they started talking about anti-phospholipid syndrome or lupus.
I wanted to see Matt anyway. We had a date with the beach and all I had was my work suit so I stopped by to get a sundress and hat; hoping he had sunscreen. Spring has arrived. The lupine and poppies lined the highway on the drive north. In the book I'm reading ("My Antonia") sunflowers line the prarie roads of Nebraska, legend has it the seeds were scattered by the first travelers so they would bloom the next season and others could follow in their path.
The busy southern California highways don't need such a guide, but it's lovely all the same.
Matt told me I didn't used to be so anxious about things; didn't used to be so wound up. I remember that. I liked that. I'd like to "arrive where I started and know the place for the first time" again.
We laid on the beach, catching up, then walked along the board walk among the bikini-clad girls and shirtless boys and a man selling fitness tips on his pilates machine (business was very slow). College boys were throwing the football close by and the waves wandered in rhythmically.
I called Jane when I got back in the car. I'd seen her when I left early that morning (couldn't sleep again, tried the Ambien and it just made me feel like I was on a tilt table and my arms and legs had developed elephantitis). I'd missed the whole crowd at the apartment complex. It sounded like she was at a party when I called, but really she was two feet outside her door. With the warm weather everyone had come out to play and visit. I'd missed both "Reggae Breakfast" and the pizza Doug had ordered for everyone. I didn't mind missing events so much. They sounded happy. What was touching is that they'd missed me, "hurry back!"
And, I finally got it together to earn my ticket to the waves. Jane and Joseph and Laura had been to the Rip Curl outlet earlier that day and inspired me to get a wet suit at last.
The smell of neoprene wafted out of the store where the parking lot was full of trucks with surf boards on top and the store full of tanned easy-going surfers. The smell brought back memories of snorkeling in Mexico with my family during high school winter breaks. Bobby T was alive then; he and his family went with us. He would have liked the conference that morning, too. He was a rheumatologist; when he died suddenly, his widow gave me his stethascope and a hat that said "MVP-Most Valuable Physician." It would have been nice to have him these past years.
I walked in the store and realized I knew nothing about wet suits. Well, very little. Not enough to make any sort of selection from the huge wall lined with them. I wandered around waiting for intelligence to strike and fiddled with tags that meant nothing to me. I called Jane again (for the third time--I'd needed directions, too). She said to get a women's 3/2 thickness. I got up the nerve to ask one of the salesmen. He helped me pick a couple out and I remembered the slurp of pouring into the black rubber. The first one was too big--bunched under the arms--he said. The family there buying a wet suit for their son had been following my progress also. The husband asked me to turn around again to see if it fit. I smiled at the thinly veiled compliment and returned while his wife knudged him on the arm and teasingly called him a dirty old man.
Think I might actually be tired...; going to try to take advantage of that before playing in the waves tomorrow...
Bona Note
It was a So Cal day. I spent about three hours in the car; half of it on the phone half of it listening to music probably a bit too loud. I sat in traffic on my way back from Redondo Beach. I drove 240 miles. Some of it faster than my speedometer goes (110 mph)--only on the toll road really early in the morning. And I loved it.
The day was beautiful. The sun was out. The palm trees waved at me from everywhere. The resort where I went to the rhematology conference sat next to giant yahtts with well dressed men in white skipper uniforms. I learned about osteoporisis, fibromyalgia, rhemumatoid arthritis, and osteoarthritis while I crochetted a hat at the end of one of the white-linened tables. I left before they started talking about anti-phospholipid syndrome or lupus.
I wanted to see Matt anyway. We had a date with the beach and all I had was my work suit so I stopped by to get a sundress and hat; hoping he had sunscreen. Spring has arrived. The lupine and poppies lined the highway on the drive north. In the book I'm reading ("My Antonia") sunflowers line the prarie roads of Nebraska, legend has it the seeds were scattered by the first travelers so they would bloom the next season and others could follow in their path.
The busy southern California highways don't need such a guide, but it's lovely all the same.
Matt told me I didn't used to be so anxious about things; didn't used to be so wound up. I remember that. I liked that. I'd like to "arrive where I started and know the place for the first time" again.
We laid on the beach, catching up, then walked along the board walk among the bikini-clad girls and shirtless boys and a man selling fitness tips on his pilates machine (business was very slow). College boys were throwing the football close by and the waves wandered in rhythmically.
I called Jane when I got back in the car. I'd seen her when I left early that morning (couldn't sleep again, tried the Ambien and it just made me feel like I was on a tilt table and my arms and legs had developed elephantitis). I'd missed the whole crowd at the apartment complex. It sounded like she was at a party when I called, but really she was two feet outside her door. With the warm weather everyone had come out to play and visit. I'd missed both "Reggae Breakfast" and the pizza Doug had ordered for everyone. I didn't mind missing events so much. They sounded happy. What was touching is that they'd missed me, "hurry back!"
And, I finally got it together to earn my ticket to the waves. Jane and Joseph and Laura had been to the Rip Curl outlet earlier that day and inspired me to get a wet suit at last.
The smell of neoprene wafted out of the store where the parking lot was full of trucks with surf boards on top and the store full of tanned easy-going surfers. The smell brought back memories of snorkeling in Mexico with my family during high school winter breaks. Bobby T was alive then; he and his family went with us. He would have liked the conference that morning, too. He was a rheumatologist; when he died suddenly, his widow gave me his stethascope and a hat that said "MVP-Most Valuable Physician." It would have been nice to have him these past years.
I walked in the store and realized I knew nothing about wet suits. Well, very little. Not enough to make any sort of selection from the huge wall lined with them. I wandered around waiting for intelligence to strike and fiddled with tags that meant nothing to me. I called Jane again (for the third time--I'd needed directions, too). She said to get a women's 3/2 thickness. I got up the nerve to ask one of the salesmen. He helped me pick a couple out and I remembered the slurp of pouring into the black rubber. The first one was too big--bunched under the arms--he said. The family there buying a wet suit for their son had been following my progress also. The husband asked me to turn around again to see if it fit. I smiled at the thinly veiled compliment and returned while his wife knudged him on the arm and teasingly called him a dirty old man.
Think I might actually be tired...; going to try to take advantage of that before playing in the waves tomorrow...
Bona Note
posted by S. at 9:31 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home