Little Things

Just got home from work and contemplating the three day weekend that lies in front of me.

I started planning for this weekend a month ago. Three whole days, there's so much to be done; so many opportunities for social climbing and personal development. Can you imagine the character growth that could happen over three days off of work? That's practically enough time to write a novel and start the grant proposal process for the non-profit marcos and I have been dreaming about.

And on top of that, it's Labor Day weekend. That's a big deal. The holidays that bookend the summer are of great significance. Memorial Day is the beginning of the New Year; not the Chinese New Year, the Jewish New Year or the start of the Fiscal Year. Memorial Day is about opportunity for summer success. The baseball season is fresh and new, school is out and there are dozens of days of fun in the sun beckoning to us. Labor Day feels the way turning one year older on your birthday feels. Labor Day is New Years eve when you don't have a date or it's preparing for Tax Day. Labor Day is an evaluation of how everything went. Did it go as planned? Was it dry and uneventful or, on the flip side, are you singing 'Summer Lovin' at the top of the track's bleachers with your fellow greasers? Labor Day is the final gift given by the gods of wrath: the dark creatures that bring rain, snow, Christmas and a natural layer of fat that coats your body to increase warmth against the odds of nature.

Labor day says, "Put away those white capri pants, it's time to hibernate!"

So it's a big weekend, lots of things to do and think about. But this year I decided I would no longer adhere to the stressful standards that surround these major events, these situations pressuring us to do the most fabulous things ever in order to reach the pinnacle of happiness at the top of Mount Popular and Important. No, I don't think that way anymore.

I appreciate moments. I find joy in the little things.

When I used to work at the ballpark and lived at the very top of Potrero Hill, I would ride my bicycle on ambitious mornings. Because it was all downhill, it was more of a leisure than a ride. At one point, the entire city comes into view over the top of warehouses in Dogpatch. The road dives in an ark over these buildings, bridging you over the 101, and as the freeway gushes beneath you, the bay glistens in front of you and the perfect profile of downtown San Francisco reclines to your left, there's always a moment of sheer utopia (before you get your eyes back on the motherfucking road in order to avoid a painful death). Whenever I did that, my ritual was, "this is the best moment of my day". And it wasn't this sad notion that the rest of my day was to go downhill from thereon. Instead it was a pause and an admittance of something exhilarating and breathtaking. Noticing such was a big deal, a success.

On my way to BART in the morning, I walk by the neighborhood elementary school. Nothing reminds you of the innocence in this world like a group of kids playing four-square. The innocence and the obvious biological imperative of competition, the intrinsic desire that your opponent will drop dead upon your will. It's a very peaceful moment for me, staring at those children from behind the fence, deciding which one I should kidnap first.

I love, I love love love to pretend I am the inventor of all the best new-wave dance moves. I'm quite serious about it too, this is not a joke or a parody of the herky-jerky punk rock. I've only found one partner that dances new wave with me (not embarrassed too) and wish I could find more people to groove with me in this manner. On a night before the Sounds concert, I new-waved danced all over my apartment with my dear friend in his boxers. Time stopped. I'm convinced if I can somehow bottle that moment and pull it out every day, I will never age a day over 25. That moment was "the best years of my life" signifier. It's an opening montage to the story of my life or perhaps it is the closing credits. I guess it depends on what happens from here on out.

Walking into the baseball stadium on Opening Day. Moment.
The completion of a tent's assembly. Moment. (Hands on hips, moment of satisfaction)
Unzipping boots at the end of the day. Oy, moment.

It's the little things I'm all about so what am I doing this weekend, you ask?

Drinking expresso from my percolator. And riding my bike.

And making my new *famous* pizza. Little things. Life is good.