here in southern california when we have weekends as beautiful as we just had, it’s funny how, for two days, we seem to forget about taxes, jobs, and healthcare.

instead we bask, like jaundiced, carefree seal pups, vying for space under blue skies and cotton-balled clouds.

saturday morning, in a room packed, bike to bike, with people i worship, i danced my face off, to gangsta’s paradise and yes, a little miley, with my fellow newport beach gangsta’s.

every week we sweat and rock to the beat for sixty, “can i have a hallelujah?” minutes.

this is truly my favorite time of the week: this dark room, that music, and this crew.

on a high that no pill, injection, cheese plate, or shot of tequila could ever replicate, i walked/drove proudly {maybe even smugly} to my next class, a barre class, stopping several times to converse, visit, etc with people and the general public, rejoicing in sunny skies, emerald smoothies, and my other various, first world pretensions.

it’s in barre that i stretch, elongate, and awaken my inner martha graham—a beast which SHOULD be supressed.

a packed class, but i made sure i was front row, center….. for all to see.

{disclaimer–i’m in teacher training so i’m asked to be in the front row–most know that i prefer back corner, in the dark, hidden, invisible, non-existent.}

and see they all did…45 minutes into my grĀnd, vainglorious, “up an inch, down an inch” performance, as i lifted my leg back into arabesque, a quick glance at my form in the mirror confirmed that, yes,:

my pants had been on BACKWARDS all. morning. long.

to all you monkeybutts who didn’t tell me—-guess how many fingers i’m holding up right now?

clearly i needed a change of scenery.

my fashion faux-pas called for a road trip.

hunkiest piled us all in the car saturday afternoon and we buzzed up north.

i wore a dress to be safe.

i forget how limited food options become on the road when one doesn’t eat meat.

beef jerky is now its own aisle at most truck stops.

i was able to excavate some fruit though…

and i think it’s even considered “raw,” right?

i mean it’s not like i microwaved it or anything?

typically i can’t read in the car….it makes me sick; like chocolate covered strawberries sick {WHY  do people RUIN TWO PERFECTLY GOOD FOODS!?!?!?!?}

but i cannot put this hilarious book down.

“where’d you go bernadette” by maria semple.

it’s the story of a woman who absolutely LOSES her mind….and i could be …..i love this woman.

bernadette {the title character} stole my heart with the following four lines:

 i’ve actually only been to a buca di beppo once.

it was for my best friend’s bachelorette party.

i was very young and very smug.

do you notice a theme here?

 i sent back my margarita because i didn’t like the taste {too alcoholic.}

the second one came back a little better, but 20 minutes into THAT drink i noticed my rigatoni morphed into large, sandy conches, hoisting miniature, blue mermaids, who brushed strands of their linguine hair as they recited def jam poetry to me.

no one else at the table could see this though.

the next thing i remember i was back at the hotel calling security on MYSELF.

fuck buca di beppo.

who knows at what moment we start to lose it?

it’s my theory that we all have these little hiccups of mini-breakdowns throughout the day/week/month/year, but some sort of reflex {luck? god? self-preservation? a mirror?} pull us back, just right before, that tip-toe, into the never-never-straight-jacket-land….

i was explaining my theory of the daily break-down to hunkiest on our drive back last night….

and then i looked down at my feet…