Cinco Dip Mayo

Picture me: Underground. The air is stuffy, partially tainted by the drab coloration of the inner workings of the Washington Area Metropolitan Transit Authority, Eastern Market Station. I am on a bench, the farthest bench away from the hustle and bustle of the district crowd… still very much apparent on this Sunday, this painfully slow Sunday afternoon. I have chosen this particular spot to power up my kindle as I wait for the delayed outbound Orange Line train. (Like my accuracy? I did not want you to have trouble finding me, three days later!)

The stimulation of people watching has already riled up my seriously jacked heart, it is time to power down to suburbia pace. I am now ready to read when BAM! out of nowhere this motivational (writing) bolt strikes. Without pen and paper, I am forced to pound all these thoughts into my phone. I decide it is worth it. This was the result. Please, more than usual, ignore the grammatical errors.

The first weekend in May was full - filled with fanfare, food, and friendship. From happy hour on Friday night to the Eastern Market Farmers Market this morning, my social bar is capped. If I had to capture the weekend with one phrase, I would choose ‘planned spontaneity’. (You do not normally hear those back-to-back!) The centralized focus for the weekend surrounded a Cinco de Mayo theme. However, plans were tame enough, had my friends and I wanted to participate in a roller hockey game in front of The White House… say we decided that would be fun… time would have permitted--nothing overwhelming stood in the way.

So never in my life have I cared enough to bother celebrating the fifth day of May, except when I had to miss a birthday party in fifth grade for the flight from hell, besides the point--these three friends had intentions to change that, intentions to maximize this excuse to not only be together but to partake in the festivities. We started early by filling our bellies with ‘Commish Hashbrowns’--a Peace Corps staple I never had the chance to indulge in because of my distant commute from these three during the Lesotho days. The meal was delicious--the kind that leaves you satisfied for hours… or curious as to just how bad grease is for one’s system. To clear the palate a couple tall glasses of water and some fancy coffee, followed by an episode or two of Human Planet were in order; I could have remained stationary the rest of the weekend with this series. (If you liked Planet Earth, Blue Planet, or Life go and get your hands on a copy of this phenomenal series.) How have I ignored my brother’s encouragement to watch this show for so long?

A las there were margaritas to be had. When the show ended, we jumped right into lunch preparation--chopping, mashing, mixing, and juicing an array of four dips… and homemade drinks. Over some “musical made for the internet” we ate ourselves into food comas, severely worse than the morning fare. 

This time recovery came in the form of a three-hour siesta persuaded by yours truly. How festive am I? So festive! Good answer. Then we woke and got right back at it, starting with slightly less potent strawberry margaritas and some silly game. Who thought we would have room for burritos? We finally stepped away from the food for the H Street bar scene where I ran the Jenga table--my most recently discovered skill. And when it was time, the bars closed in sync with our eyes mouths.

Today, much later than the rest of the world, we awoke. We easily convinced ourselves to explore the hopping Eastern Market, knowing food--in the form of warm pretzels and abounding samples of fruits, salsas, and breads--was only a mile away. That brings me here, inches from my stop--ill with exhaustion and full in ways less obvious than my bloated stomach. Just like that, the weekend has vanished. They seem to come and go, more or less leaving me ready to tackle another work week at the cube farm. It truly helps to have a job you really really really like and a solid team to work amongst. So I am not only refreshed for the grind, I am excited for it. And for the record, if I chose to celebrate this day again, I would want it to be just like this; I will strive for this sort of planned spontaneity in the weekends ahead.

Updated: Now it is Wednesday. And since I am just now getting around to posting these words, I am not bothering to edit one iota. Sorry Mom… yet another post of decreasing quality. Paycheck or stay-at-home-blogger-daughter? The choice is yours! Sorry readers… welcome to the speed at which my mind races to include each and every minute event detail in a less than fluid thought process.