I Left My Shins at the San Francisco Picasso Art Exhibit.

   Just returned from a trip to San Franciso where we brought our 19 year old daughter back to school for her Sophomore year.  It's alot less rough the second time around when her very excited friends are there to meet and greet her.  I even got to experience what is to be invisible!

     I enjoyed being the parent with no pressure to appear cool in any way, shape or form.  (My husband is so far off the scale of cool, he refers to himself as a "hipster."  He's actually more "retro" since he can't let go of the 60's fedora, sweater vest and argyle socks.)

     If you ever plan on going to San Francisco, start walking uphill now ... or maybe, yesterday.  Believe it or not, I trained for the trip, walking on my treadmill at elevations of eight and ten for two months.  The mistake I made is that I did not practice walking downhill.  By day two of our trips, I had shinsplints that would make a soccer goalie swoon. 

     I reached my peak of pain at the Museum of Fine Art when we walked slowly through the Picasso art exhibit.  Now I'm not sure if my feet and shins hurt too much or if Picasso had really ugly friends, but I just didn't get it.  Call me unsophisticated, unrefined or in need of a good foot rubbing but cubism seems like a scam.  Being a comedian, I entertained myself with my own thoughts as I sat on a bench and waited for my husband and daughter to inspect the paintings.  "How did this guy keep any friends?  Once he turned the canvass around and said, 'This is you', I think that would have been it!" And was that couple with the cockeyed heads who were painted running down the beach really that homely?  I bet they thought they looked cute that day.  What about the lady who had her arm coming out of the side of her head.  Did she jump up infuriated and say, "Listen, my little Pic, did I really have to sit here all day for that?!  I am so outa here!"

     Maybe an Aleve or a masseuse would have changed my whole perspective or brightened my spirit.  Perhaps Picasso was a hipster and I was the one wearing a sweater vest that day.  Trying to think of the "good" news, I decided my next career could be that of a cubistic artist.  I can't draw, I can't paint and yet my friends would think my contorted efforts were inventive and creative.  Now that I think about it, maybe this Picasso guy was really on to something!