Yugoslavia Dismembered, Sisterhood Everlasting, yoga

D.C. residents will want to stone me to death upon reading this post, but I’m not afraid to speak my mind about the district’s latest phenomenon. Kill me if you’d like, I’m proud of my thoughts on this particular matter.

With all my heart, I love the heat wave that bombarded D.C. this week. Everyone is miserable, yet nothing makes me happier or calmer than the warmth of the sun. I’d live in this heat for five years straight if it meant I never had to feel cold again.

Never underestimate the positive effects of the sun. You need it more than you’re willing to admit, and the high temperature isn’t all that unbearable. If you think this is too hot, you should try living in Tucson, Ariz., in July. The dryness will dehydrate you, zap your skin of all moisture, and turn you into a lizard. The sun is much stronger out west, so you’re actually safer here.

As much as I appreciate the heat, I had a rough time walking to the metro for my yoga session at 11 this morning. I arrived at the studio completely drenched and had no time to do pre-class stretches. The instructor knew we were all overwhelmed by the climate, so she went easy on us today. I was pretty happy about being back at yoga, as my podiatrist ordered me to avoid it for a month to heal my broken toe. This was my first trip back to yoga since injuring myself, and I’m happy to say I’m pretty much back to normal. I’m having some balance issues, but that’s nothing new.

When yoga ended, I headed to Starbucks for an iced latte and reading spot. Once I ordered my drink, I sat next to an attractive young man at a long table. Though engrossed in “Yugoslavia Dismembered,” he smiled and said hello. I quickly whipped out my own book, “Sisterhood Everlasting,” which is a sequel to the “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” series.

After about ten minutes, the adorable guy tapped my novel and said, “You’re reading ‘Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants’? LOVE it! I love the movies, too!”

Judging by the content of his words and inflection, it was clear that he wasn’t into women. Kind of a let down, all nice and cute guys turn out to be gay. I only felt sad about it for a second, as he was hilarious to talk to.

More than anything, I was intrigued by the fact that we were reading drastically different things but could connect over both of them. Each book has its own tragedy. His book is about the grave problems Bosnia and Yugoslavia endured. SPOILERS: My guilty pleasure chick lit story has a suicide.

“Tell me it’s not Rory,” he said, referring to Alexis Bledel, who plays Rory Gilmore in “Gilmore Girls” and Lena in “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.”

“No, it’s not Rory,” I replied.

“Thank God!”

I too love Alexis Bledel’s characters, even though Rory kind of turns into a shallow snob towards the end of GG. All that aside, we had interesting debates on the two drastically different works. We also talked about our living situations. Because he’s cooler than me, he has an apartment in D.C.

“I’m in Virginia, and I’m staying,” I said, noting that I’m moving to another northern Virginia pad next month. “I feel like I’m too young to be living here, though.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s true,” he said. “On the bright side, you can always chill with bros in Clarendon.”

“Not my crowd,” I said, laughing. I went to college with a bunch of bros. Some of them had good hearts, but the slimeballs I encountered should be locked up.

“Where are you from originally?” he asked.

“Northern California.”

“So why did you come here?”

Every time I tell people I’m from the bay area, I’m almost always asked why I left the Golden State for the nation’s capital. It’s simple: I love D.C.’s pace, work ethic, and energy. California is wonderful for living, but not necessarily for working. I’d never get anything done over there. The beach would tempt me too much. I do, however, miss the spirit of both Arizonans and Californians. Everyone seems genuinely happy and willing to chat out west. I haven’t found the same warmth anywhere else. I’ve even become more guarded, as I now approach all strangers with suspicion. If someone tries chatting me up on the metro, I freeze up and assume they just want something. In California or Arizona, I’d think they just wanted some company for the remainder of the train ride. I’m less trusting of D.C. folks, especially since I’ve been berated, harassed, and verbally abused by several homeless people. That’s another thing: Homeless people in northern California are way friendlier than their hostile D.C. counterparts. Unless they would like me to buy them a meal, I’m not having any of their nonsense here.

Back to my new friend, who has lived in the district for five years. At the end of our conversation, I awkwardly inquired about adding him on Facebook. I’m not very good at formally asking people to be friends, but since we’d broken the ice at that point, all was well. I could always use more friend, mentors, and book dates in D.C., so hopefully this works out in my favor.

Maybe our next book discussion will include “The Elements of Fucking Style,” a parody of the most helpful writer’s manual I’ve ever fucking read.

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