Open Your Golden Gates

I’m transcribing this from my journal; I wrote the original rant on the plane coming home from my very first the-working-girl-is-home-for-the-holidays Thanksgiving.
I just had a lot of feelings.

San Francisco, you obnoxious piece of spectacular.

I look at the seals at Pier 39, who sleep for 13 hours a day, and I think, "I get you, man. I get you."

Don’t get me wrong — I love New York, though I haven’t been able to breathe much in it; I haven’t given it a lot of time. New York is a hot pair of pumps, maybe, or a new leather jacket. Smells as fresh as it looks more expensive than you haggled it for. But San Francisco, you golden-ass retriever — you’re so easy to love already. You come pre-lovable. Aside from the fact that you hold 80% of the people I care about, the way you just let me freakin’ be, as opposed to making me feel grimy and subordinate in LA,
or rushed and over-caffeinated in New York.
With you, I’m always enough.


18 years, and sometimes I still end up at Candlestick Park.

There’s still plenty a-kick in me that wants to live in Fancy City, FancyCountryPlace for a year. There’s still entire limbs of me that fantasize about being hired to travel in some capacity. But nothing makes me feel appreciated and hugged and okay the way you do. New York demands growth and talent from me, which is so necessary and invigorating right now. But the volume of life is on full blast here; you hit mute and I forget what it’s like to hear myself think.
This city is a dream, but I’m twelve-times-over lucky that I get to go home to you.
You’re the realest thing I know.

The two bravest explorers I know, makin' sure the coast is clear in John Muir Woods.

I know now’s not our time. If I come back now — if I come back soon, even — I’ll be haunted forever by the FOMO-man. (Fear Of Missing Out; an overachiever’s nastiest nemesis.) I’ve a wanderlust even your pretty Bay waters couldn’t quench. My time and my spotlight are in this Large Apple today, and I’m terrified that if I ground myself in you too early, I’ll never leave. Now’s not the time for comfort, I know that.
You’re Holly and I’m Michael Scott.
Now’s not it.

"I don't CARE about the sunsetting, hold STILL, this will look SO good when I print this at Costco"

But when it clicks, it’ll clack,
claro que thi. Right will be really, really right, and I’ll zip up my NorthFace and get in my Corolla and take little Geegil to Fort Funston with one of those weird ball-throwy wands, and we’ll stay out there until I need Chapstick really badly then we’ll re-heat some La Tapatia, watch the sun go down from a hammock somewhere.
I’ll forget to tweet about it.

And I’ll wander no more.

Fairly sure I was a puppy in a former life. Moreover, a Fort Funston puppy.

Until then, your mere freaking existence sustains me, knowing I have somewhere so delicious to recharge when needed. Somewhere so maternal and forgiving; somewhere I always fit. Thanks for letting me do m’thang right now; I know I have your blessing. I know from the way you smile up at me from the ground, even after I’ve neglected you for months. But to know you’re waiting behind me on the other coast, sitting crosslegged, pretending to change seasons, keeping the ones I love safe (be cool on that San Andreas, friend-o)…
It’s like having a secret weapon.

Or an hot, unusually-faithful foreign boyfriend.

Like this guy over here. Playing hard to get.

What they don’t tell you about truly flying the coop?
Leaving is torture the first time, and it gets less so as you grow.

But coming back only gets better.

The view no landscape can beat: Mount Dancing Chef Daddy.



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