June Is For Lovers

potholes, dykes, and flowers

The street is blanketed with jacaranda flowers that cling to my Hokas, the purple gunk melting into the sleek grooves. With each stride, I stick ever so slightly to the asphalt.

I wonder if the people I pass during my run can hear "Du hast" by Rammstein blasting from my earbuds. I try to match my steps to the heavy bass, laughing to myself over how disjointed the song seems on such a quiet, serene day. The afternoon sun is oppressive, and I secure my earbuds under the arms of my sunglasses to keep them in place. Does everyone else’s head perspire this much while they work out? I try and fail to wipe the tortuous dripping machine off my brow—I know it doesn’t help that I run when the sun is highest in the sky (don’t worry, Mom, I wear sunscreen).

Despite the concerning amount of sweat coming out of my body, I feel completely at ease on the path. I take my tried and true four-mile route down to the beach path, the houses along the way climbing in appraisal value as I get closer to the ocean, and then back up through Bluff Heights, a neighborhood lined with Craftsmans built in the 1920s, many of them displaying signs in the front yard that read “I’m 100 years old!”. I know the way like the back of my hand, having run it hundreds of times over the years I’ve lived here. I am careful to avoid the streets riddled with excessive potholes and uneven pavement, which have become permanent fixtures in the landscape (oh, how I love you, Long Beach).

My legs still ache from yesterday’s strength training class, so I run slowly, allowing me to take in all the sights, scents, and sounds of spring. At this moment, I am as happy in my body as I am sweaty.

This time last year…

Fitness, particularly running, has been a big part of my sobriety story. My most recent fall off the wagon was also, so to speak, a fall off the treadmill (I don’t use a treadmill, but just run with it HA ok ok, I’m sorry, I’ll stop).

Last spring, I could barely run a block, let alone four miles (or a marathon). I was so deep into my drinking—having gone from casual sips from friend’s glasses to secretly consuming a bottle and a half of wine every day—that the only time I was active was during my walk to and from the liquor store.

Today, I feel strong, and most days, content. My days pass by without incident, whereas last year, I was tormented by cravings and withdrawals. The fog of depression during my relapse had clouded my vision, making it impossible to see that everything was in full bloom around me, the flowers desperately trying to brighten my world. These spring flowers now remind me how far I've come, and I can’t help but be in awe of our mutual transformation.

Dyke Day

I recently attended my first-ever Dyke Day, an annual event that takes place in a Los Angeles park for dykes, queers, and allies to celebrate pride. I’m shocked that I’ve never gone, especially considering it’s been around for as long as I’ve been out. I went into it excited, but also a little terrified. What if my social anxiety got the better of me? What if everyone around me was drinking too much, and I became stranded in an awkwardly uncomfortable situation? What if I ran into someone I didn’t want to see? There were endless possibilities of horror.

But the day was perfect. The park packed us gays in like sardines, but the energy was lively and blissful, a stark contrast to the deep isolation I experienced last spring. As I sat on the grass, marveling at the bouquet of lesbians before me, I found myself chatting with an ex of my ex’s, a moment that could have been awkward but instead felt surprisingly comforting. We laughed over our shared history, which seemed more tragic all those years ago, and the small world of our community. My heart warmed when she genuinely asked me “How have you been?”.

The day was filled with simple pleasures. We ate cherries, and when we discovered their sweetness couldn’t distract us from the heat, we found an ice cream truck and ordered soft-serve cones. We took photos, showing off our various states of undress, our mullets and wolf cuts, and our dogs (and cats…). The sun raged on—it's funny how 76 degrees in LA feels like 86 in Long Beach—but we smiled our way through it and if nothing else, made friends with other queers sheltering in the shade.

When the sun became too intense to ignore, my new friends quickly retrieved sunscreen from a tote and assisted me in applying it to my freshly inked tattoos—flowers and barbed wire adorning my collarbones. When we left the park, some of us lobster-red, I felt elated. It was so easy to enjoy the day—and to enjoy myself.

Back to current day…

As I run shamelessly in the direct sun, I make a mental note to wear shorts next time since my arms are now tanner than the rest of my body. I jog through an archway of jasmine, the scent carrying me down the block on a heavenly cloud. I turn left onto a street I normally don’t venture down and immediately notice it is lined with several jacarandas. I avoid the perilously uneven sidewalk and run on the asphalt, each step painting the street with purple mush.