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Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

We all have our daily morning rituals—the activities that take place between morning-breath and coffee-breath. I prefer to skip straight to the latter, subscribing to the super powers of my French press like it’s a binge-worthy podcast; each episode, each pour, better than the last.

I grew up in the Windy City and know just as well as any bleary-eyed Tom, Dick, or Harry how morning joe is the gas station you spot in the distance when your fuel light comes on—the quicker you fill up, the faster you can return to feeling safe and normal.

At least half my Facebook friends—the ones who have yet to move away from the Midwest—never skip a chance to post a pic of their homemade oat milk lattes in their chrome Yeti tumblers to their feeds with the caption “LFG.” I thought for the longest time that stood for “Lattes First, Girlies!” Come to learn, it’s “Let’s Fucking Go.

” Believe me, I’m well aware of the magical powers of caffeine just as much as anyone.

But the irony is not lost on me to think how it is so crucial for these folks to get at least one cup of go-go juice down before doing a job comprised mostly of sitting at a desk all day answering emails.

My ritual here is a little different. Because here in Ocean Beach, you don’t wake up on empty. And you don’t wake up early, either.

Just because my alarm is rarely set for before 9:03am (I have a thing about not setting my alarm for on-the-dot times), doesn’t mean I don’t work or have a serious job that relies on my regular attendance.

It just means my career runs on a different speed—a different cadence and resistance, in Peloton terms.

So what do I do all day? I sit at a desk, too.

But it’s not like the scoliosis-inducing jobs a typical four-year degree earns you.

I’m proud to say I hold down the front desk at a beach-side yoga studio.

While I’ll be the first to admit that there’s virtually no stress attached my job, it doesn’t diminish the fact that I still need moments of pure serenity.

I need time where it’s just me on my patio with my French press and a few blips and quips from the neighbor’s parrot, Walter.

I need that to remind myself of the life I chose over skyscrapers and city buses.

The majority of the country’s hustle-and-bustle population will never experience a pace of life like quite this for any real length of time—except for maybe on a vacation here and there.

I pinch myself daily knowing this isn’t a vacation.

This isn’t an Airbnb with an insane cleaning fee.

This is my everyday life renting a house in Ocean Beach.

A lizard darts across a sunny spot on my cement patio and I don’t even flinch as I refill my coffee mug—a dark blue ceramic cup with a large ergonomic handle that feels solid in my hand.

There are highlights of greens and browns throughout the dark pottery piece, like hints of seaweed and sand in the ocean.

‘An Ode to Earth’ my mother titled this one, mailed to me fresh out of her trusty kiln in Arizona.

Walter chirps: “Tres! Tres!”

He’s calling for my former foster dog—a three-legged pit bull from the local shelter who has long since been adopted. The two used to “talk” over the fence. File that under: things that are only normal in Southern California.

“Walter, be quiet,” his mom, Cassie, says as she heads out her front door. “Sorry. I keep explaining to him that Tres got adopted but he doesn’t seem to get it. Maybe you can foster another dog with all four legs and we can teach him to say ‘ Quatro’ next?”

“That’d be cool,” I tell Cassie, who is always working on expanding Walter’s vocabulary.

“Moons, I’m heading to Joe n’ Flow. Can I get you anything?” she asks.

I gesture to my French press and confirm: “I’m all good over here.”

“Hey, I’m thinking I’ll do the 2 o’clock Vinyasa today depending on the surf. If the waves keep going like they have been these past few days, I’ll have to skip class again and paddle out.”

“No worries. I totally get it. Say hi to Brody for me if you see him out there.”

Cassie flashes me the shaka sign, a friendly surf-culture hand motion that essentially means “hang loose,homie.” as I wonder for the umpteenth time what Cassie does to afford her rent.

Brody—no relation to Jenner—is a semi-pro surfer who I met at Joe n’ Flow after his trainer recommended that he take a core power class to improve his ab strength while up on the board.

The guys who typically practice at Joe n’ Flow do not look like Brody.

They have more henna tattoos on their bodies and less hair on their heads.

So when I noticed someone who looked like he was once a shirtless greeter at a Hollister store, I couldn’t help but ask if he needed a block.

And when he didn’t know what one was for, I couldn’t help but demonstrate.

We exchanged numbers and have been ordering fish tacos, giving each other one-armed side hugs, and sloppily making out after a few too many Coronasever since.

It may not be the next Netflix breakout, but the Moonie in San Diego storyline really does come together by dating a trendy-named surfer with hair that’s blonder than blonde.

If that’s not “being twenty-five in California,” I don’t know what is.

I tap the screen of my phone. It’s 9:56 local time. Make that “Twenty -six in California.”

Right on cue, a text from my Type-A older sister, Olivia, comes in.

HBD, Moonie. Did Nora text you already?

No, you’re first, I assure her. I know it’s commonplace to text HBD for Happy Birthday, but I’m positive Liv did it to save the .293 seconds it would have taken to type out the full text just to make sure hers came through before Nora’s.

Another ping comes in. A text from my—we’ll call her: type- A minus —oldest sister, Nora.

Hi Moons. Happy Birthday. Hope it’s a great day. Did Liv text you yet?

No, you’re first, I assure her, too.

Always a few beats behind, my mom’s message comes through next.

Happy OFFICIAL birthday, Moonie! 26…

My mom’s relationship with her cell phone is touch-and-go.

She’s a busy lady, wrapped up in what I call the ThreePs of Retired-in-Arizona Living: Pottery, Pickleball, and Places with Mister Fans.

While I wish “Phone” was on that list, it doesn’t make the cut very often.

She raised three girls primarily on her own, plus taught hundreds of kids in her classrooms over the years.

I can see why she’s chosen to disconnect a bit from the youth of America.

So I heart the text and accept her communication style for what it is: distant, but sweet.

Thanks Mom. Love you too! We need to get a visit on the books…AZ isn’t that far from CA , I say back—a nice balance of a geographical absolute with touch of guilt.

Noticeably absent is any acknowledgment from my dad.

But such is life when you haven’t spoken to your father for the better part of decade.

Still, though, I never lose hope that when he checks his phone and realizes the date, he’ll put aside all the time and distance that has separated us, and just shoot me a damn HBD text.

For now, I allow the three messages that have rolled in so far to soothe my soul as I set my phone down wondering when the women in my family will lean into group texting. I may live a slower pace here in Southern California, but efficiency is not lost on me.

“I’ve got your mail, Moonie.”

Speaking of slower paces, there’s a noticeable tiredness to Gerda’s voice as she sluggishly makes her way up the long, cement front pathway.

She reminds me of a veteran lunch lady who’s slapped her ten-thousandth serving of mashed potatoes on a hard plastic tray, just without the hairnet.

All of my grandparents passed away before I was born, so I have no idea what their voices sounded like.

To me, Gerda has a universal “grandma voice” and while I wouldn’t want to listen to her narrate an audiobook, I do find it comforting in small doses.

Unlike the other houses in Ocean Beach, my little (350 square feet little) beach shack is set back—way back—from the road on a street called Narragansett.

While I love that my front yard gives me a buffer between the surfers and the skaters who coast down my street all day to get to the Pacific Ocean, I’m sure the extra fifty feet are tough on my seventy-something-year-old landlady, Gerda Germaine, who makes this trek every Wednesday when my People magazine, a housewarming gift from Nora (note: Liv got me a trivet I’ve never used), gets delivered.

“Thanks, GG,” I say. After renting from her for almost two years, I want to believe we’ve reached the point where nicknames are kosher.

Especially because my name— Moonie —feels like it’s in a perpetual state of nicknamehood.

Sometimes with a name like mine, I feel like a woman with big, perky, perfect breasts having to swear they’re real all the time.

In fact, my version of “Go ahead, touch ’em,” is showing off my name on my driver’s license.

“Coffee?” I ask, even though I know the answer will be no. It’s always been no. Maybe she’s a tea girl. We haven’t covered that yet but thankfully there are at least another twenty-five issues left in my subscription so frankly, we have time.

She sits down on a patio chair and scoots closer to the table. The sound of the metal legs dragging against the cement hurts my teeth like nails on a chalkboard, and sends another lizard scrambling for cover.