The backseat of a cop car is not comfy. It pretty much feels like sitting on a more textured, barred version of Roger Rabbit’s Wild Ride, minus everything fun about it.

“Watch your head,” the officer kindly reminds me. “Sorry, I have to…”

Not to worry, this ride was the least of my troubles. These kind cops had listened to me lament my phone which 5 minutes prior had been taken from my hands on a muni bus on my way home. I had sat there soaking in what just happened before popping out the side exit to do what, I wasn’t sure. Luckily there were two gentlemen who dialed 911 for me and there just so happened to be cops already circling the block of projects. I filed a report, thanked the kind men and ducked into the back of the police car.

A bit dumbfounded back at my place and feeling a little naked, I tried to locate the phone, put a “stolen” note on the display, suspended my service and removed any cards attached to the phone. I attempted to find an online alarm clock and slept terribly.

I awoke to a failed alarm in time to get ready for a much-needed coffee date with a girlfriend who was one of the best people I could have met with. She enlightened me with a skill she learned on a mediation retreat – to not let thoughts that aren’t yours have any authority; to ask “who gave you that authority, Thought” and to remind yourself that “these thoughts are not my thoughts.” Definitely a practice but as we headed to a yoga class and set an intention, mine pretty clear, I felt the slow release of breath – letting go of what this situation truly was: attachment to a material object.

This object is not me. It does not define me. It is just a “thing” and in the big picture, I was safe, I had witnessed the kindness of strangers and some pretty awesome cops who treated my situation with seriousness and value and drove me to my front door.

Yes, the situations sucks. I both dislike that my phone was stolen and dislike that I dislike it so much. It happened, it’s over and I now know that the backseat of a cop car is not plush but hard plastic. Hard plastic to let the hard reality sink in that some things suck but they’re still just things.

“Ding!”

“Pacing: 9 minutes and 42 seconds.”

I hear this Map My Run dialogue near mile 6 of San Francisco’s 2015 Bay to Breakers 10K race – a bandwagon I jumped on a few days prior agreeing to come clad in all things red, white and blue.

I did not need to turn around to see where this robotic voice came from because two seconds later, a man in his 60s passes on my left, naked. Question being…where is his phone from which that announcement came from? Nevermind, don’t answer that.

Also passing on my left, a guy in an inflatable sumo wrestler costume. Talk about resistance training. A couple Dumb and Dumber tuxedo suit duos and a Baywatch lifeguard with her shark boyfriend. I can always count on Bay to Breakers to never disappoint, but what I didn’t expect was the clarity and liberation those ten kilometers would provide. In stark contrast to last year’s race where I was mustering up my own motivation, second-guessing my training, torn between sticking with the pack or running on my own, having to rush off afterward to other obligations and not able to revel in the frenzy of finishers.

I’ve had a blast all years racing, don’t get me wrong. But there was something extra special about this year. Something about meeting my running group at 7am – a time most of consider “late” compared to our usual meet up at 6:24am. Starting a warm-up bounce with a group cheer. Dressed head to toe in all things ‘merica. Excited, awake, cold, and picture-happy. Being around a bunch of people who are equal parts motivated, excited, jazzed and just straight-up fun. Either running with them or without them, the experience was exciting because I showed up, we all showed up, and we were doing it together.

I have many great things in my runner’s tool belt to make a decent althete: determination, drive, positive attitude, and discipline but endurance doesn’t make the cut. Speed and pacing aside, crossing the finish line at “Ding!” 1 hour, 22 minutes, I felt great and realized I could have kept going. What up, Golden Gate half marathon? You may just meet your match.

Consider this a verbal.

Some mornings flow with the effortless routine that I find quite comforting. Wake to my Amélie theme song alarm, get ready, catch the express bus, grab a coffee en route to the office, breakfast, check email. Simple and pleasant. By now you probably are aware of the many things that speckle my morning with the predictable unpredictability that comes with public transit and the spectrum of passerby. Tuesday was no different but add in a 5am alarm in Los Angeles, where no matter how lovely the Amélie theme song may be, does not take away the early factor of pre-sunrise darkness.

It’s a fun break in the routine though. I wake up in my niece’s twin bed (she has a memory foam pillow – an eight year old just one-upped me), stumble down the stairs to pack my bag and am greeted good morning my my dad who has also woken up early to take me to the airport to catch my flight so I can make it to work on time. I arrive in San Francisco and realize that, already juggling a weekender and a purse, a coffee and an oatmeal would be disaster. So I head to BART sans caffeine and make the journey to the office.

A deep breath upon arriving to let the remnants of the weekend find their place, a couple familiar tabs and browser windows getting back into the swing of the digital world and then it’s coffee time. I choose the further coffee shop, reveling in the walk and the crisp bay area air. I arrive at the counter and mumble half to myself, latte or cappuccino? The woman at the register, always stoic yet warm with her words, says cappuccino, always.

And so it was. My cappuccino, albeit its tiny stature – my four fingers on the outside exactly the height of the vessel – was delicious. Despite it being about four times the price of my normal coffee, it was a bit of foamy luxury and that’s exactly what I needed to start the week off. A bit of hey, you got this.

I wander past the shelves of indie publications on my way out and I remember how important the little things are. Those tiny routines or breaks in routine that dig deep into who we are and how we feel most connected. Even among strangers most of the morning, I felt tied to my fellow coffee fiends – indulging in a daily routine that makes us feel rooted, ready for the day with a small piece that’s already in place regardless of how the rest of the puzzle falls.

Ever had one of those days, weeks, or couple weeks where things are a bit off? Where maybe you receive some tough news, something reminds you of life’s delicacy or the fragility of the human heart? I’ve had those times lately, where I feel like my brain is going at the speed of lightning while my heart hangs heavy and my body moves through honey.

I’m walking in this slow fast way, coming up from BART with a yoga mat under my arms and a very tall lady is walking confidently in my direction. Now, I’ve been shouted at more times than I would like around public transportation. A homeless man has shouted “BOOM!” in my ear as I walked by, I’ve had hands shaped like guns pointed at me, deep explanations about friend’s sister’s neighbor’s dog walkers. Naturally, I move slightly out of this woman’s way and I can see she is about to form some angry words with her mouth when she surprisingly yells out, “YOOGGAAAAA!” I couldn’t help but smile and that smile set the tone for my day. It was just the little reminder I needed to get back in touch with the small pleasures in life, to walk with a sense of ease and lightness, and to never assume too much without fully knowing.

This woman probably had no idea how much I needed that exclamation of excitement. How, even before coffee, I could be awoken to a little laughter and a the kind of act that shakes perceived reality in the most humble and unexpected way.

It’s a funny thing when the light of the bathroom goes out on you as you’re trying to take a urine test.

An even funnier thing is propping your iPhone flashlight against your overstuffed purse to hopefully complete the daunting task only to realize there are “how are we doing” survey cards atop the toilet. Well, for starters, let’s get some light up in here. Secondly, your attempt at providing me a wipe reminiscent of a steak dinner makes me just want a steak dinner. The opposite of a dark bathroom at 8am. Just saying. Not to worry, just some routine blood tests to keep these levels in check. Let’s hope those iron levels are low so I can actually go grab that steak. Mic drop.

With that rant over (ha!), I have to say my 28 years are shaping up quite nicely. In the past two weeks, I’ve joined a free workout group that couldn’t be more bright (literally, bright), energetic and fun. Oh and they hug. I heard somewhere last week that it just takes seven hugs per day to change a person’s disposition. Consider my disposition a lot happier every Wednesday morning. If you haven’t yet heard or seen November Project, they’re worth hugging.

I also chopped off my hair. It’s sassy, a bit edgy and chic. Yes, those things can co-exist. That or my stylist, Alan, can really throw back my vision back and convince me. Either way, I’m loving it and feeling fresh, confident and a bit more capable of taking on the world one side-part at a time. Also, an old friend and I have reconnected. Hi, Dry shampoo. It’s been since the aisles of Boots in England, hasn’t it? It’s really good to see you.

As I enter into this new age where it suddenly becomes sort of more rational (if not creepy) to look at the ring hand of handsome men, I feel a little nervous and a little okay all at the same time. I go through this circle of having it all figured out and then having it all up in the air again. But in that circle of hot mess lies balance right? We can’t always have it all sorted and we can’t always be up in arms. We fluctuate between moments of hardship and lightness, sadness and laughter, success and failure, effort and ease. Did someone say yoga? It helps me check myself before I wreck myself.

With nights like last night, fighting my way for a 2″ x 2″ square of sidewalk through Chinatown only to get shoved into a parking meter, hopping on a bus with my phone pressed to my nose to read a bummer email, I just wanted to go into a hot, dimly lit room with a bunch of strangers and sweat out control and let in acceptance. In this case, when I’m not trying to aim for a tiny cup, I welcome the absence of light. In these moments, I can let myself shine through.

I love to create playlists for my yoga classes. Maybe its a way of incorporating my passion for dance and movement synchronized with rhythm and beat. So when I create a playlist timed with the pace of movements, it threw me off a bit when five minutes into the class, I realize my playlist is on shuffle. As “Murakami” plays for the second time, I I try to find a song that somewhat resembles the pace of the current sequence while they take a few breaths in down dog. Even still, I couldn’t seem to undo the shuffle setting before moving into chaturanga.

A student in class shyly asked, “Was that ‘No Diggity’ I heard last week?” and taking this as a form of a request and being given the unexpected gift of customizing a playlist for the class, I was able to dedicate “No Diggity” like a wedding DJ. “This one goes out to the guy on the blue mat!”

But that’s just is. What was a bit of a potential panic moment turned into an opportunity to find a beat that someone could move to, a laugh in others, a touch of lightness in the middle of a sweaty sequence, and most of all, a personal checkpoint where I could bring myself back to the things that matter. So what if they heard The Movement three times?  Maybe someone will request to hear that song next time.

As we settle into savasana, hearing the final relaxation song now for the second time, I realize that I try to teach my students something that can mitigate suffering, bring them a bit of peace, strength and inner power. I’d love for them to step off the mat and into the world to find that they are closer to becoming the people they already are.

What I heard a lot about during my yoga teacher training but didn’t expect was how much my students teach me. Every class, I learn to have compassion, patience and love for myself in my successes as well as my stumbles. 

I can be found “should-ing all over myself,” as they say. “I should have known to uncheck shuffle.” If you find yourself doing this in life, “I shouldn’t have thawed the chicken for tonight,” truth is, you did and it’s alright. Moving forward. You did your absolute best given the present moment and that’s truly all we can ever do.

Being a yoga teacher and in life, I am learning to laugh through the struggles, invite some lightness and let go what’s not serving me.

When I was a server, I would have waitress nightmares (you feel me fellow vest and apron-clad hospitality aficionados?) – “Shoot, I forgot that man’s refill.” “Table 34 – I didn’t drop a main course spoon!” “I promised I’d check on that Anthony Bourdain recommendation and, well, didn’t.” All true stories.

I don’t have many graphic designer nightmares but last night, I had a dream that I was about to teach my Friday night yoga class and it was more crowded than a Shiva Rea class at Wanderlust. I had the normal space to work with and as I tried desperately to convey the benefits and alignment of twists, my voice was drowned out by a lot of leggings, shuffling bare feet, sticky mats and yogis rushing in late to find a non-existent spot.

Half honored and half in despair, I turned to find Sean Penn sitting cross legged in a desk chair mat’s edge. We chatted and I think he was wearing his same outfit from the Oscars.

When I woke up, I was slightly confused at what my mind had just created for my night’s sleep. I usually have vivid dreams of thoughts I have not yet allowed the time and space to fully process. Thoughts, conversations, people, memories – all re-surface if I haven’t thought the thoughts that come with the visual.

I like this aspect of my dreams. It brings to mind what I haven’t yet brought to mind – as if to say, “nuh-uh, Jess, we’re not done here.” I’m not quite sure yet what Sean Penn was doing there and what kind of unfinished business I have with him but fear not, Sean, I’m on it.

Talk about mindfulness and stepping out of the doing and just being with your thoughts. If I don’t, they come along for the REM cycle and no one wants to wake up thinking they left things unsaid with Sean Penn. No one.

Though I heard this a lot throughout my school years, it had a new music-to-my-ears quality that brought a slight grin to my face as I laid out all of my papers in front of the passport agent at a post office in San Francisco’s industrial-clad Bayview neighborhood.

After a week of scrambling to gather needed documents, trying to find my expired passport two moves later and taking my mugshot of a photo, I finally succumbed to the harsh realization that my secret hiding spot was too secret for even me to find my beloved souvenir of 20 countries. So down to Bayview it was with my Paris-themed folder filled with sacred documents held close and coffee held out far.

But it was’t all bad. We, all of us in the lobby, were in it together. I made small talk with a man also waiting, got googly-eyed over a baby that couldn’t have been more than 4 weeks old (though this is 1 month in my book, parents seem to get the utmost satisfaction by counting in weeks for as long as possible until it gets weird) then decided why not kill two birds with one stone (I just realized how awful this saying is) and get stamps while I’m here. The attendant holds the binder of stamp options at arm’s length for me to squint at insisting that I not touch the pages. I return to my seat and it dawns on me that this morning has actually been quite pleasant despite its official nature.

I also realize that this morning has been equal parts adventure and productive. Just as I realized that I am equal parts my parents. I’m heading to Germany to visit family I have never met – the spontaneity and craving for adventure that I inherited honestly from my dad who’s living there temporarily. Matched with my mom’s supreme sense of organization and preparedness, I show up ready to handle that post office humbly. It’s fun to see the duality of my parents at play in the smallest things. From my coffee preference to my folder within a folder presentation, I can feel my mom and my dad wherever I go and in that lies the greatest security of all. Security that not even Bayview’s barbed wire fences and vandalized bus lines can take away from me.

I like Mondays. There, I said it. I like them because coffee feels the most right in my hand. The week is young and fresh and coming off of either a great weekend (this one was!) or a bad one, you get to start anew. Talk about the compostable paper cup being half-full.

This weekend, I filled my time with family, wine country and an Oscar viewing at a 89-year old San Francisco theater. Among the highlights of this weekend’s festivities were also some pretty standard (read: not-so-standard) muni adventures that I can’t help but share.

First, there was the lady sitting right behind the clipper card scanner who served as the bus’ honorary peanut gallery. A lady stood in front of her with a backpacker’s sack on her back and a jean pant leg wrapped around something we all hoped wasn’t an actual leg. Every slight of her movement sent the people to her left and right jumping out of the way for fear of its contents. People seated had no where to go but to squish up against a stranger which felt more comfortable than being hit with mysterious limb. Lady-behind-clipper-scan is yelling “Whoa! Yyou gon’ hit someone with dat backpack!” but is quieted only by a man who slowly stands to his feet from the back of the bus who somehow flew under the radar with a black and white long-haired cat on his shoulders. She starts back up, backpacker and cat-man now side-by-side but this time speaks to the cat, “You chose the right one, baby…”

They both get off the bus.

Yesterday, I hop on the bus after a wonderful yoga class and there is a young man half-way back who yells, “Happy Sunday!” only to be greeted with silence. People look around, not too sure where such an exclamation came from. An older woman gets on and starts chatting up the 4-year old across from her. She tells him he’s smart and the dad beams. She then yells, “Hey! Where are you from?” to get the map-folding tourists’ attention. She thanks them for being a part of San Francisco’s number one grossing industry. “Happy Sunday!” A few grumble “Happy…Sun…Day…” The little boy hops off looking back at his newfound friend, “I didn’t get your name!!” She replies, “It’s Grandma!”

Unrelenting the young man tries again, this time louder. “Happy Sunday!!” Now the whole bus…”Happy Sunday!!”

Happy Monday.

This was the title of this morning’s yoga class featuring heart-opening, back-bending and heart-shaped sweat, of course. I arrive to the studio to find a greeting card resting against a Castro wall reading “nice butt”. My ego’s boosted just as I’m about to check it at the door.

In my yoga glow, I stroll a farmer’s market, make small talk with a vendor who describes his avocadoes as the 1960s of Mustangs. Sold. An Asian couple stuffs their bag with a certain kind of potato that I’ve never seen before. Pointing, they say “the best”, so, naturally, I must grab a few. An elderly man shouts at his departing friend, “be there before 9, so, 8:30!” He turns to me and says, “You should come too. It’s at 9 and it’ll be a great time. So…8:30!” Noted. Love truly is in the air and nothing says romance like closing out a mutual account which I did with carrots and cabbage in tow.

I’m currently snuggled on the couch, clicking between The Notebook and Love Actually (I think I nailed it this Valentine’s Day, what do you think?) and will be off to a vintage circus themed wedding dressed as a ringleader.

I’ve had a date with myself, with strangers, old friends, new friends and soon a bunch of circus enthusiasts. Today has reminded me to #LoveEveryDamnDay. Keep an open heart and love where you’re at, no matter where that is.