This weekend, Sam and I have been extremely busy, beginning with a poetry reading on Friday night for a friend who just published a collection of poems, to brunch on Saturday with our neighbor that lasted over two hours, to a dog play party to dinner with my family, all the way to this afternoon, standing under a hot sun (by San Francisco's standards) with Kevin and Gordon at the 41st annual San Francisco Pride event, listening to some retro disco band that I had never heard of, nor would I ever want to again.
This is unusual for us, as we both have a natural instinct to be anti-social, sequester ourselves away from everyone and hibernate. My friend Steve used to call me "Julie," as in the cruise director from Love Boat, though I never really understand how he saw that in me. Yet when I took inventory of all that we accomplished this weekend while waiting for the band that Gordon had wanted to see this afternoon, I surprised myself with the quantity.
Afterwards, Gordon said he grew up on this band, described how his sister introduced him to it when they drove to clubs and he would listen and think that this was "adult" music. I overheard a group of bearish gay guys talk about how the crowd in San Francisco's pride event seemed much more friendly than the event they attended in LA. Teenaged girls with their gay friends surrounded us and cheered and laughed and reminded me of the girl-friends I had in high school, the ones who took me to proms, talked to me about boys, hung out with me at lunch when I didn't know who else to sit with.
And now, Sam and I are home, sunburnt and tired. An evening spreads out before us with no other company but each other and Grr. And I'm simultaneously glad that we have no other plans or people to see, and that we had so many earlier, plans and people that took us outside of our house, our sometimes isolated lives, and into a world of activity, a flurry of stuff. It was good to be a part of it, and now, good to be home.
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