I crave balance.
Too much Pittsburgh winter darkness? I’ll fly off to Florida’s light the first chance I get to keep me from getting the kind of SAD that’s concerning.
Too much social interaction? I’ll crawl into my introvert cave and not answer texts or phone calls or emails for days (or weeks, let’s get real).
It’s words of affirmation that I never get sick of, and yet, on occasion, you need some asshole who lives down by the river to knock your swollen head back into reality – or at least some semblance of it.
I was having a good day. Work was humming along at a good pace and energy, it was a weird/good 60 degrees in February, the sun was out, and I felt like I may be starting to really get into the swing of things at my job (EHHHHH SIKE – there’s a place that will put your head on a swivel and make you feel like a genius one minute and a person devoid of any intelligence the next).
I walked out of the office and across town in search of something to eat, and if Feeling Myself was a person – “it me” as the young people say. Or maybe I “was giving Feeling Myself.” I don’t know. Anyway, my confidence in my outfit that day was reinforced by two separate “gentlemen” of Market Square who stopped me to tell me how great I looked (in definitely different words but in only borderline inappropriate ways), and so, as we know, I was about to be knocked down annnnny minute so that balance could be achieved.
The day was gorgeous, so my buddy, Charlie, and I coordinated meeting in the North Shore post-work to go biking. We bike a lot around the city, averaging once a week in the summer months, biweekly in the fall, and dwindling down in slow motion like the trees lose their leaves and their joy. To get a day to be out on a bike, exposed to the sun in February in Pittsburgh is such a treat, so we were quietly joyous, fueled by chapped smiles and vitamin D, as we pedaled furiously happy into the North Side.
Charlie and I have been friends for nearly 7 years now, and as I’m writing this, I warmly remember hearing somewhere that friendships that last for 7 years are the ones most likely to last a lifetime. I’m confident in that considering my guy has seen me at my absolute worst and vice versa. I love our friendship, and … it made me want to punch him right in the mouth when he decided to take a picture on private property in the North Side.
A perpetual fan of the golden hour, my pal has a real talent in capturing interesting and beautiful moments as an amateur iPhone photographer. He also has a penchant for not reading signs and even if he does, ignoring them, and owns a confidence of “what are they really going to do me” which I simultaneously admire and abhor.
We are about to pass by a boating dock, when Charlie whips back reversing and shouting, “I want to grab a picture!”
“No!” I yell. “There’s a sign!”
“I’ll just be a second,” he claims, my voice fading to him as he coasts down the ramp.
I sigh and stop to read the sign. There is a giant sign, clear as day, that states “Private Property. Do not enter. Turn around in giant, red font. You shouldn’t be here, goddamnit.”
But you cannot convince this man that he does not belong.
As he’s squatting low, trying to capture the sun and its glorious and miraculous setting, a leather-faced, wind-burned man slowly saunters up behind him, a slow, bow-legged walk that insists it’s in the right.
“Charlie!” I warn. “There’s a sign. We need to go.”
“I’ll just be a second,” he says, defiant and well-aware that Leatherface is encroaching.
“Hey, buddy …” Chimney Voice grunts with a tone that is using “buddy” in that way men use right before their fists.
I watch as the space between them shrinks, and they both seem to gain height, expanded chests, rage, with colorfully fascinating exchange.
A man running the trail passes with a hearty laugh that says, “I’m not getting involved,” and “Good luck.”
I yell but don’t move forward from the hill from where I’m perched. I’ve learned from experience to never try to separate two angry men. Nothing good will come of that for a 5’ 4 woman.
Charlie holds his own in the argument which is to be expected. An attorney by trade, he knows how and when to argue, and more importantly, when it’s time to leave … Most of the time.
“Let’s go!” Charlie says to me with a laugh as Pack-a-Day growls.
I’m thrilled to leave and go to turn on my heel when Whiskey Dick screams, “Yeah, that’s right! You get out of here! You and your fat-ass fucking girlfriend.”
We speed away, me in shock and Charlie motherfucking under his breath. While I know this man is mighty confused about both our relationship status and thinking “fat ass” is the dig he thinks it is in 2024, I can’t help but feel embarrassed and uncomfortable in my own skin in that moment.
“Dude called me ‘fat,’ bro!” I scream as I pedaled alongside my friend.
“Who cares?” Charlie puffed back. “That’s the only dig insecure men can come up with.”
I bike along, thinking about what Dick said, how Bestie couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to be a woman reduced to their looks or perceived (over) weight. But, as always, what goes around, comes around, and perhaps this was the moment where my ego was meant to be balanced.
Sigh.
Months later, the marina sustained extensive damages after 26 barges decided to go out on the town and let loose. Literally.
I think we both got what was coming to us.
So, thanks for being the yinzer to my yang.
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