Happy Hours

It’s not often that I go to happy hour.   People crowded into tight spaces, noise, chatter and boisterous glee – this is not what I need at the end of a long workday.   For me to unwind and recharge, I like to be alone.  Most days, I scurry home to my woman cave.  But every now and then, I crave something different.   So, here I am, off to happy hour.

Exiting at Gallery Place-Chinatown, I make my way up 7^th street.  Seventh Street is its usual carnival of activity. Cars and buses fill the street with their obligatory honking.   People on foot are rushing to get somewhere until slowed by dazed tourists.  And bicycles brazenly cut through it all.  But it’s Friday, and a little more mayhem, somewhere between kids on the last day of school and animals escaping the zoo.

  

I arrive at La Tasca and I’m pleasantly surprised.  There is a sea of dark wood throughout – the flooring, tables, chairs and the bar.   Large, wrought-iron chandeliers hang from the ceilings.   The restaurant is warmed by golden walls.   Red and yellow accented décor remind me that LaTasca has brought Spain to downtown Washington. 

After excusing my way up to the crowded bar, I find James and Hilda.  James greets me with his usual “Heyyyy…KayKay!”  James I’ve known for almost 20 years, and Hilda I only know through James.  A few times a year I go out with them and experience something new.  I once went with them on a bar crawl which was cool until we reached the third or fourth bar, a club with 3 floors.  Shortly after entering, I knew I had had enough.  When they went to another floor, I headed straight to the exit.  Via text, I bid James adieu.

After settling in beside Hilda I look over the menu.  I don’t usually fool around with sangria but La Tasca has seven sangrias on their happy hour menu.  Hilda, a connoisseur of happy hour, says the sangria they’re drinking won’t bother me.  Although my stomach wasn’t convinced, I follow Hilda’s suggestion.  There are only 2 bartenders behind this very long bar and they spastically move from one customer to the next.   Without much effort, Hilda gets the attention of one of the bartenders and orders another pitcher of sangria and my dinner of mini empanadas and calamari from the $4 happy hour tapas menu. 

The three of us chat about everything but nothing in particular.  Hilda and James have been here for 2 hours before my arrival enjoying their sangrias and appetizers.   They had caught up on their lives since last seeing one another.  Hilda’s ability to get the attention of the bartender was impressive and we tease her about it.   Most of our fun is in watching the bartenders and the happy hour patrons crammed around the bar.  These patrons were mostly young professionals and they dressed as if they took their young professional jobs seriously.  We, on the other hand, are not that; but can appreciate those not-so-good-ol-days. 

James went to check the meter and soon after, Hilda and I find ourselves discussing men and dating.  I smiled at the thought of two single gals at a bar talking about men and dating – a bit stereotypical but great fodder for happy hour.  We giggled, raised eyebrows, and pursed our lips as we talked.   We took a more whimsical approach to our single status instead of war stories and hopeless resignation. James has returned and we finish off the last pitcher of the evening.  James asks “Ya’ll ready to go?” which was a statement that it was time to leave.  We made our way out of the restaurant that was still packed with those that had come for happy hour. 

Hilda and I headed to the train station and the last thing I said to James was, “I hope I make it home ok.”   Pointing at me, he answered, “Look, all you have to do is get on the train.”   I nodded like a younger sibling receiving step-by-step instructions.   But first I had to keep up with the fast pace and chirpy conversation of Hilda.  All of this, I did; in spite of a queasy stomach and the dizzy detachment from the happy hour sangrias. 

On the train, I sat back and relaxed; smiling at these last few hours.  I was happy to make it to the metro and down the escalator, amidst moving people and morphed objects.  Happier still, that the contents of my stomach remained intact and in my stomach.  I really enjoyed myself as I was with friends - talking about nothing, eating, drinking, laughing, living.   It was our time to caste off or delay the worries of this life.  Once home, I texted James to let him know that I had made it home and that I was alive.   He said he was glad that I came out.  I texted, “Me too! I had fun!  Imagine that.” To this he replied, “Smh. Imagine.”

For non-texters...Smh = shaking my head

That Which Matters Most

Everyone has their own approach to the new year.   I usually take some time to consider where I’ve been, where I want to go and how to get there.   This year I want to be more intentional about my time and making sure that I spend it on things that matter most to me.   At this stage of my life, what matters most to me is to feel well and to be well in the world.

My wellness formula includes quality relationships, a spiritual practice, writing, good food and exercise.   I also need to discover new things, and to laugh and play.  I function best when these are mostly present in my life and am off-kilter when they are not.  On some level, I hoped that this awareness would automatically result in me doing more of these activities.  But no, I actually have to set aside time for these things and then make them happen. 

Setting aside time for the things that matter most will always mean that I must choose one thing over the other.  I may have to decline invitations to celebrations, noble causes or entertainment.   There’s nothing wrong with them other than their timing being out of sync with what I need to do.  I’ve learned how to kindly and artfully say no.   

To live this way is a daily practice.  Sometimes I just need to pause and question whether the action I’m about to take will serve any real purpose or contribute to the welfare of my soul.  I will miss the mark.  I try not to be too frustrated with myself.  All I have to do is push reset and try again.   Perhaps this is the hope that comes with the new year. 

One of my favorite new year's cards

Labor Day Nostalgia & Considerations

Although special to me, I haven’t always understood the purpose of Labor Day.  Yes, I knew that Labor Day had something to do with labor, i.e. work.  I probably learned about it in history class in middle school.   I didn't pay much attention to the history being taught because I often felt detached or excluded from it. Even as a child, I knew that there was history and then there was the retelling of history.  As a result, my response to American holiday fanfare is always accompanied by a slight roll of the eyes. 

By the way, according to the U.S. Department of Labor, the first Labor Day celebration was in the city of New York on September 5^th in 1882.   Labor Day didn't become a national holiday until 1894.  About 28 states had adopted legislation to celebrate the holiday before Congress passed legislation to make it a national holiday that would be celebrated on the first Monday of September.  Labor Day was created out of the American labor movement and is meant to celebrate the American worker and achievements made to our country’s prosperity.   

"Woman's Work is Never Done "-   From My Kitchen

I often feel nostalgic and even whimsical about Labor Day.   Growing up, Labor Day meant the end of summer and going back to school.  In Maryland, we didn't go back to school until after Labor Day.  My mother would take us shopping to get us ready for school.  Of course, as the only girl in the house, this was a much greater production for me than for my two older brothers.  Every year, there was the constant negotiation with my mother in terms of how many new outfits I really needed for school.  I would try to tell her what some of the popular kids would be wearing and Rudell (ma) would say “Karen, those kids aren't going to do anything with their lives.”  But at some point, the negotiations would end when Rudell said, “Karen, you have enough.”  At home, I would model for my mother – as if she hadn't already seen every piece I tried on in the store and again at the register when she paid for them.  I was pleased and she was exhausted. 

I learned that I’m not supposed to where white after Labor Day.  But when I was in college at Spelman, I met a lot of women from California and they were unaware of this fashion rule.   My roommate was from California and she thought that was the funniest thing she had ever heard.  She was still laughing in December as she was putting on her white pants before heading out to class.   I figured this must be an unwritten rule for certain parts of the country.   I still like the idea of putting away light and airy clothing to make way for fall clothing, cooler weather and the smell of sweet potato pies in the oven. 

Beyond the end of summer, going back to school, wardrobes and shopping – Labor Day is a day in which we should pause and reconsider our work.  Many struggle with work life balance.  This isn't to say that we can ever achieve balance.  Most people spend at least 8 hours at work and 2 hours commuting.  This doesn't account for evening, job-related functions and part-time employment.  Still, there should be time in which we work and time in which we don’t work.  We need to leave, get rest and then return more focused.  We should also consider whether or not we like our work.   If the job isn't fulfilling, does it at least help to accomplish some of your life goals at this stage of your life?  No one should stay on a job that is physically and emotionally draining resulting in un-wellness.     While you may not be able to leave immediately, you can plan your great escape.  I've done it a few times and it was worth it.  Either way, it’s up to us to figure it out - how we work and don’t work –perhaps this is the real significance of a holiday that celebrates the American worker.