Since a friend recently made a joke about it, here are ten things I left in San Francisco that were not my heart:
- My cardiologist: He was a great guy who wore little plastic animals on his lab coat. More importantly, he was very generous and treated me at bargain rates when I found myself uninsured and facing a thyroid-generated emergency.
- My ex: He was a native Californian and I actually did take him with me when I moved back east, but I returned him after a few years. Unfortunately, I did not take him to an authorized redemption center so I never collected my CRV.
- My car: Someone set it on fire in an alley off Harrison Street twenty years ago. It ended its days in the old impound lot off Third Street.
- My “essence”: OK, this is just a polite way of saying I got laid a lot in San Francisco.
- My (ahem) career with Kinko’s: Leaving SF was how I finally cut the cord. Great move, that.
- My nicotine addiction: Left it out on the deck one night in 2003 and haven’t missed it.
- My account with Wells Fargo: Hated them. Loved saying goodbye. And now, as fate would have it, I am POA over my mom’s account with them. So I once again have an ATM card with a fucking stagecoach on it and a message that reads “customer since 1992” as if I’d never left.
- My long (and sometimes big) hair: Chopped it all off just before I turned 30, which is, I think, a wise move for just about anyone.
- My twenties and my thirties: Not much more I can say about that.
- My willingness to be in San Francisco: Even for a visit. Which makes me a little sad.