Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Freddie's Dead and I'm rockin afro puffs

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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