Hanging Out In Beverly Hills

There are moments when the rapidly aging anatomy launches a rebellion. Why? I'll tell you why. Because it can, that's why. After sitting for two hours, lunching with a dear friend in a fancy-ass Beverly Hills restaurant, all I did was stand up. That's all. I stood up, as one does, when one finishes a pricey meal. Cue the oy veys, the overall agony of the tightest hip flexors "in the world," according to a physical therapist I once spent quality time with, thanks to the whole Bursitis Mini-Series, no longer streaming on Netflix. As I made my exit, I thought I'd done a fine job hiding my discomfort, until the hostess noticed my limp and offered to call me a concierge ambulance. Thoughtful, don't you think? But no, I decided to power through the pain and began my trek. Pre-sitting injury, I'd parked the futuristic auto many, and I do mean, many blocks away. I started hobbling up Canon Dr., trying to retain the SJG Mystique and keep the geschreis to a minimum. By Little Santa Monica, I considered crawling the rest of the way. But then, why should I get my nice pants dirty? I leaned against the street light, pushed the walk button, and did a series of yoga stretches, not giving an eff how lame I looked. "Hey, do you mind if I hang here?" someone asked. I turned around to find a handsome young dude with shocking white hair. It wasn't clear whether he want to hang with me, or... oh, okay. He wanted me to move. So I did. Like an Olympic gymnast, he jumped up, grabbed the metal bar connected to the pedestrian crossing sign and dangled. "Oh, wow," I marveled. A few seconds later: "Yes!" he said, jumping back down. "Cracked my back. Awesome. Thanks." "You're welcome?" I said, not sure what I'd done, other than give up the pole for his chiropractic needs. But still, it felt mitzvah-adjacent. The light changed and my good deed-ish not only propelled me across the street, but also helped ease my suffering. At this point, I'll take it.