On Friday night I went out dancing.
And, maybe this was a bad idea. Because on Monday I had to take a sick day and my mom said to me, “This is your own fault, you wore yourself out, I hope you remember this in your future.” And, maybe it was my fault. But, more likely it was the fault of a long, long and hard week and work and NOT SO MUCH the fault of LIVE MUSIC and hundreds of lovely people crowded onto a polished hardwood floor, moving the sounds of piano and brass and drums and a singer whose voice (flown in from New Orleans) could positively captivate a crowd (be still, mine beating heart).
But, I digress.
There was a theme for the dance and that theme was “pirates.”
Now, I’m at the stage in my life where I don’t need to have the best costume at these parties. But, I also feel like I need to get my celebratory attitude on a little, soooooo, I put on some things.
Someone bought me a really nice blue shirt from Mexico last year, kind of the color of my eyes, but also kind of the million colors of springtime, so I started there. I also have a little skort, black, with a cyan stripe along the bottom, so I matched that with the shirt along with some cyan fishnets…just for fun. And I finished with a red bandanna and some starfish earrings and maybe even a bit of smoky eye because, why not? Friday and dancing and pirates, ya’ll.
Cue dancing and more dancing.
Cue leads I’ve met and danced with throughout the years, but new ones, too, and friends from out-of-state and even older ones from in-state who finally said things like, “And I can’t believe it’s already midnight!”
To which I replied, “Oh, geez, I need to make sure I drive home!”
Because the commute is around an hour, you see.
So then I changed from my dancing slippers into my blue boots, and started driving. But, I was hungry because: a few hours of dancing.
And, in the distance, I saw a Speedway gas station and decided I would spend about two of my hard-earned dollars on a gluten-free granola bar.
So, I parked my car and hopped out and traipsed through the store and decided upon which bar I wanted most and made my way up to the cash register.
There were a few women waiting in front of me in line. And they ordered a pizza.
And, truth to be told, I judged them for that.
I was like, “Who would buy a gas station pizza? Why would you do that? And why at this hour of the night?” (For, it was approaching 1 a.m.)
And then they looked over at me.
And, in the words of my friend Anne, “I could read the judgment in their eyes.”
I took a step back and looked at myself.
My fishnets had caught a snag, and were now ripped (in more than one spot, I should add). My makeup was smudged and smeared from dancing. My hair was sweaty and flattened behind the red banana. My combat boot/ dancing skort combo wasn’t doing me any favors, either.
I realized all this, looked up, and smiled, trying to convey, “Look, I’m not a suspicious woman!” but, alas, they didn’t buy it.
I attempted small talk.
I was met with polite, “Mmm hmmm”’s.
So then I made my purchase and left.
And I didn’t judge them anymore.
Maybe they were just hungry for gas station pizza at 1 a.m. after helping friends do hard and challenging things like deliver children or move homes or other important, hunger-inducing matters.
My ripped fishnets and I aren’t here to judge.
Scoot over, Pope Francis. We can share a granola bar.
(I know, I know, there was context to Pope Francis’ statement and it was blown out of proportion by the media. I know. Take a deep breath. You can have a piece of my granola bar, too.)
(Granola bars for all!)