A handful of months ago my pal Tommy and I decided that we needed to exercise so we instituted Tennis Tuesdays, a weekly event in which we gathered together to play tennis, typically on Tuesdays. Tennis Tuesdays proved to be great fun and great exercise, but then October came to San Francisco (and other places too, I assume) and the outside started to become darker earlier so we opted to pivot Tennis Tuesdays into #coreyandtommydoearth, a weekly event in which Tommy and I "do" a different Bay Area neighborhood each week, also typically on Tuesdays.
After "doing" Nob Hill last week, we ventured to Hunter's Point earlier this evening to dine at a youth-run supper club called Old Skool Cafe, which turned out to be not open on Tuesdays (or Mondays or Wednesdays or Sundays), so we went to a different restaurant that was open and enjoyed a delightful meal (hibiscus lemonade and jambalaya, y'all) and stirring conversation (Tommy: "If we had to start a new civilization from scratch and you and I were the founding members, what would your role be?" Me: "Event planner.").
Following dinner we hopped on the T and made it one stop before I started to feel not so great and so I told Tommy as much and, as it turns out, he was feeling not so great, too. With our mutual feelings of not so great escalating, we decided to deboard the train with the notion that the fresh SoMa air would be beneficial to us. We'd made it about three blocks from the train station, Tommy and I, alternating between "I might puke." and "Oh god I'm gonna puke." when something shifted inside me in a maneuver that I've since dubbed "The Reverse Lava Lamp" (my head got hot and the contents of my stomach took a plunge) and I sensed danger. For fear that I might have my second accident of the nature nature since turning thirty less than six weeks ago, I summoned a Lyft, one-hand-hugged Tommy and tried not to cry for the eleven-block ride home.
I made it into my house and into the restroom just in time and stayed there long enough to read the full maiden issue of The Sunday California Magazine which was quite lovely and will likely be, as Mother Jones predicted, California's answer to The New Yorker. I'd like to report that I'm feeling much better now, although I can't say the same for Tommy whose only communication to me since our parting was a text message that read "Oh god."
I do concede that this post, all four hundred and ninety-five words of it, was one mondo overshare that will probably land me an earful from my mom in the morning, but I didn't have the wherewithal to edit what I had originally planned to post so I'm sorry and here's a relevant GIF of Ron Swanson holding a Lite-Brite.