My mom always said that if you can’t say anything nice, you
shouldn’t say anything at all. I’m full of shit. She said no such thing, so
here we go…
I’d like to say that I was struck creative today and that I
knew exactly what to write about, but that is far from the truth. I caught
myself at the supermarket desperately searching for shitty quizzes in even
shittier chick magazines at the checkout counter. 20 moves to a flatter stomach in two weeks; to my chagrin there was
actual work involved. I thought perhaps I’d find something simple like “stop
eating so fucking much” or “you’re hopeless, we we’re just kidding, have
another hot-pocket” but there was actual work-out moves complete with steps in
there, you guys. Next! I kept searching for the Holy Grail: Is he really into you? These six clues will
tell you for sure! There is so much garbage out there though and I have a
propensity to throw in the towel at the first signs that I might actually have
to put forth a solid effort. There’s a pan of brownies at the house I’d much
rather be doing business with; screw those washboard abs! I turn 38 next month
and I’m rightly comfortable shopping for sweatpants from now on at this stage
in the game.
I spend a good deal of time focusing my hostility at others,
and so for today boys and girls, I’d like to flip the script – because if you
can’t say anything nice…just kidding; what fun would that be?
I’m the clumsiest bitch I know; my close friends will attest to as much and the bruises on my shins, arms, and feet will back that story up. It’s a
wonder I still have 10 fingers and 10 toes. I’ve nearly lost a couple here and
there in the kitchen in freak accidents with knives. Somehow that goes wayside
when the music starts. For a girl who walks into stationary objects on a
regular basis and has broken a toe putting on underwear [true story] I love to
dance and don’t even suck at it. Most nights you can catch me in my kitchen
getting down while I cook dinner. The type of music doesn’t matter too much;
the funkier the better though. Tonight’s pick: Curtis Mayfield. Everyone
buckled in??? Fantastic! Here we go!
I’m a visual girl; not in a nasty way, you perverts. The
music starts to play and I can almost feel the notes on my skin. I can start to
see and feel my surroundings change. I’m not hallucinating either, so please
step away from your phones – no need to dial 911. The drums, the horns, and a
flute too – then it happens. I bust out in plaid bell-bottom pants and polyester
top; mustard colored. I’m black now too suddenly. I’ve got the sickest afro
puffs and a rockin booty. I’m scaring the people I live with. It is a live
re-enactment of Soul Train in my apartment. To the outsider, I'm an awkward white
girl who’s likely to injure herself and require medical attention. In my mind,
I am a solid gold dancer and I can’t stop…won’t stop. I identify. I’ve also just
dropped the sauté pan lid on my left foot. That's gonna leave a bruise.
Music has always taken me places that not even books could.
Shit, for a moment I was black. I never once read a book and thought “Yep, I
could totally put myself in that Geisha’s position – totally relatable.”
Growing up I always wanted to be Ella Fitzgerald. I don’t know if many young
girls felt about Miss Otis the way that I did. I never gave it much thought
until today when my partner watched me doing my thing in the kitchen again and
could only shake his head and say “You, my dear are a delight.”
I don’t have a point in any of this other than I like good
music, magazines are bullshit, sweatpants are my official uniform, I only
injured myself once during the course of all of this, and Curtis Mayfield is
the shit - I’ve include a track for your listening pleasure.
Hopefully you can picture me as a black chick in bell-bottoms
and afro puffs. I think I’d be pretty rockin. If I’ve offended you, lighten up.
Dance, you’ll feel better, ya stiff.
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