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.
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.
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.
XX,
N.
(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!)