Heather and I are eating brunch at Zazie last weekend. It's sprinkling a light rain but we're sitting at a sidewalk table in front of the restaurant anyway, refusing to admit the truth - that in spite of living in California, it's still winter.

I look up from my coffee and - oh my God - there's this woman. Standing in the rain, waiting for a table with a few friends. They're all your average San Francisco hipster types. But she's ... not.

Living this close to Haight Street, you get used to seeing things. Funny, amazing things. Haight Street is the place where the 60s never stopped. And the 70s. And the 80s. And just about every time or place there ever was. So conspicuous fashion choices are par for the course. Still, every once in a while, you see something new. This girl was something new.

She was wearing some kind of Swedish maid outfit that normally only exists in comic books, but black, like a gothic St. Pauly girl. Fishnets. Heels. And the most impressive shelf of cleavage I've ever seen. I only point this out because it's relevant to the story. Honest.

So Heather and I are eating our breakfast and enjoying the show of watching other people try not to watch the goth Pauly girl. She's becoming aware that her fashion choices are causing a stir, but seems to be enjoying it. She says, loud enough to hear, "I feel like this getup is pressuring me to be a different person."

Without missing a beat I whispered to heather, "That's not all it's pressuring."

And that's when my wife, my lovely wife of just over six months, laughed out loud. Really really out loud. Loud enough that everyone turned to look, including the goth Pauly girl.

"What did you say?" she said, approaching the table.

In a moment like this you've got two choices: Repeat what you said with confidence or run. I repeated what I'd said.

Everyone laughed, including her. (Thank God - she totally could have taken me.)

– dmp
2.24.05

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