thistle

You see them pushing Bugaboos and Maclaren strollers in the DeYoung, their little non-gender-specific child (just one child) walking around being the very center of their perfect universe. They wear Simple walking shoes and North Face or Patagonia fleece vests. Their clothes are cotton, stretchy, no graphics. They carry reusable water bottles, ready at a moment's notice to hike up Half Dome. Their hair is clean and soft, naturally dark brown and shiny, a little curly.

They never make mistakes. They don't blow their paycheck in Reno or stay out too late on a work night. Who knows if they even work? They jog in the park every day. They never have hangovers because they don't drink (except maybe a glass of red wine with their wild-caught salmon and organic chard). They are radiant, their skin gleaming like the cheeks of the golden buddha statue on their mantlepiece. They shower in the morning and then again after yoga.

Being healthy is their number one goal in life, more important than fun or joy or politics or money. They make money so they can afford massages and membership at the climbing gym. Their kid is in kid's Hatha class.

I don't know what these people are called. They aren't yuppies. They aren't suburbanites, because they live here in the city. What I do know is that they are everywhere, and I can't stand them. They make me want nothing more than to drink an entire bottle of cheap champagne and chase it with a fat rail of coke and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes.