Slaying The Parasite or How I Had A Great Weekend

At some point in the last few years, my weekend routine became exactly that.  A routine.  And a boring one, at that.  Friday night usually involved dinner and/or drinks to blow off some steam.  Saturday meant household errands and laundry.  Sunday was reserved for bemoaning how quickly the weekend went and how the work week loomed oh-so-uncomfortably close.  Every now and again there'd be an outing with friends peppered here and there, but they did nothing to stop the unrelenting juggernaut that was the Weekend Routine, bouncing harmlessly off its hull like B.B.'s off a battleship.  Eventually the Weekend Routine grew to infest Monday then Tuesday then the rest of the weekdays until it shed its adolescent "Weekend" stage and become a full-grown 24/7/365 behemoth, leveling up to become The Routine.

Now, the thing about The Routine is that it's not a monster in the traditional sense.  It doesn't want to rip your head off and eat your brains or otherwise do you swift and brutal violence.  No, it doesn't have that kind of ambition, charisma, or bravado.  It's lower than that.  Much lower.  The lowest of the low.  It's a parasite.  And like any good parasite it needs a host.  Enter deliciously oblivious Japanese man.

To trap its victim for consumption, The Routine envelops it in a cocoon of comfort, lulling it into a false sense of security.  "Hey buddy, everything's ok in here.  There's nothing out there worth pursuing.  Why mess up the good thing we have?  You work so hard.  Why not take it . . . easy."  The physical nature of the cocoon is such that you can see out and people can see in, but nothing can pass through the walls.  So The Routine casually swats away words of concern from friends and others while the host slumbers peacefully, unaware that it's trapped at all.  And all the while, The Routine feeds on the most delicious and valuable of human possessions--time.  Each day spent within its clutches is another not spent seeing, hearing, smelling, touching, and tasting all that makes the world so magnificent.

And so was my life.  Until this past Friday when I looked out from the cocoon and saw a girl there who I'd never seen before (or at least a girl I don't remember ever seeing before).  A girl who stirred something deep within.  I wanted to stop her before she got too far away, but when I went to reach out my hand, I was met with the hard, sticky shell of the cocoon.  Sensing my irregular movement, The Routine showered me with a heavier-than-usual dose of naysay.  "Hey dude, what're you doing?  Where're you trying to go?  She's not who you think she is.  She's ordinary and uninteresting just like the rest.  Don't bother going out in the cold.  Stay here where it's warm.  Come on, buddy.  It's me and you against the world."  It was no use, though.  This girl's mere presence had shaken me out of my stupor.  No amount of sweet talk from the parasite was going to keep me trapped within its hot, dark, slimy prison any longer.  And so I did something it wasn't expecting--I fought back.

I kicked and punched and clawed and bit and scratched until I'd made way out of the cocoon; until I was something I hadn't been in a while--free.  That first breath of fresh air had the sweet taste of possibility; of the unexpected.  Something for which I hungered after my long slumber.  I looked back to see my former captor slowly withering away, my escape having caused a fatal wound.  I stepped over the slowly expiring parasite and went to find the one who'd inspired my breakout.  When I finally caught up to her, we stood there for a moment and exchanged a silent glance.  Of course, there's only so much glance that can be exchanged before it gets awkward, so I reached out, took her hand, and the rest is Weekend (the non-routine variety):

A Dodger Stadium picnic with delicious sandwiches from the Farm; a 3-0 victory for the hometeam; a drink (or six) at a Bar Far away; gangsta music on LA's most gangsta freeway, the 110; a private moment in the parking garage . . . interrupted by a really drunk brotha with a bag of fast food drive-thru; a late night; an early morning; picking up one car and dropping off another; Costco sample heaven; hoppin' in Ferrari; Lincoln Blvd; Santa Monica; the Daily Bread; Third Street Promenade; the People's Court; shining bright like a diamond; a $20 miscalculation; froyo with more than one topping; an encounter with a genius; picking something up a day later than expected; top down; Lincoln Blvd; masseuses; Indian food (hold the meat); sparkling wine; nerds; The Hunk; a beautiful pianist; another private moment; another late night; another early morning; brunch with friends.

And, to cap it all off.  A vintage Polaroid picture.  Not too shabby for a guy still trying to get his post-cocoon bearings.  Although, I must admit that it's easier when walking hand in hand with another.  After all, as I'm quickly learning, life isn't meant to be a party of one.

--KM

"The sun is gone, but I have a light.  The day is done, but I'm having fun.  I think I'm dumb.  Or maybe just happy."