a tribute

To all the single ladies,

My Friday nights have become a complete joke. Thanks to my genius decision to train for the Nike Women's Half Marathon on October 18th (which *gasp* is in *choke* less than a *hyperventilation* month...), I don't leave my house on Friday nights for fear of ruining any chance I may have of not sleeping through the cruelly early Saturday morning runs. While this strategy is not 100% successful...it is actually about 25% successful...ugh...I still refuse to go out on Fridays. This often results in a wardrobe change into pajamas around 7pm, crappy TV show watching beginning around 7:30pm, and the ever present, but for some reason much stronger on Fridays, desire for a burrito around 8pm. Last night, however, was a very special burrito trip.

Papalote is a little Mexican food restaurant about 4 blocks from my humble abode. Touted as having the "Best burrito in San Francisco", this place is usually overrun with your typical adorable San Fran duo out on a fun and quirky adventure. With their left pant legs rolled up, their enormous purses/messenger bags, and their fierce love for tall cans of PBR, they are the textbook definition of the couples you love to hate. You know they've got big plans: a rooftop concert complete with circus acts, maybe an underground showing of once banned communist propaganda films set to soundtracks from bands you've never heard of (but feel pressured to pretend that you have), or perhaps a simple open mic in bar (that you've never heard of) with vintage velvet paintings and $2 Hamms. All it takes is a simple shake of their head to clear their eyes of their side swept bangs to remind you that all you are doing tonight it absolutely nothing. With nobody.

Last night had its share of these inked up pairs, but there was also present a new demographic, oft underrepresented in San Francisco. I'm speaking of the cute, single young woman who wants nothing more on a Friday night than to wear her grubby sweatpants, watch her crummy stories, and gnaw on her gummy burrito.

Yes, you read this right. I am not the only one.

Last night, there were four of us. Standing in relative solidarity in the way of all those perky couples, waiting for our orders, thinking only of our sofas, I like to think we all recognized in each other a bit of ourselves. That our simple presence, the knowledge that we were all there for the same purpose, were going home to the same fates, gave us that rare but priceless feeling of 'I'm not alone in this world.'

So this is for you, you three beautiful women at Papalote, ordering take out on a Friday night, in one of the most exciting cities in the world. I hope that while you shuffled the two-five blocks to your Victorian converted flats, looking over your shoulder every couple of minutes to be sure no one was lurking behind you, that you felt stronger, smarter and prettier, knowing that there were other women like you. That we worked all week, that we struggle to better ourselves everyday, and that in the context of all the pressures we're under everyday, that we freakin' deserve a burrito at the end of it all. I hope you lifted your head a little higher, took a deep breath, and felt, at least a little better, as you settled into your sofa and prepared your DVR to display to you the next ridiculous but tear-jerking plot twists of Grey's Anatomy. I know I did, and I thank you for it.