Redheaded Women and Alcohol

Some nights are like this back at home in Suwanee, Georgia. I was out so late tonight. I went to see a band that washed in from a tide pool. And I am so glad that I did. Leave the tide pools, take what they bring. What a show. What a...okay...woman. Six feet or more in a red jumpsuit and these so very trendy '60s glasses.

I was stood up. By a man. He was not six feet or more. She's slender, North Italian if I have a guess. I could write pages of prose to her nose. The way her hands move. The way she stands like a model, like a goddess. When she said she prefers the company of women after an introduction from a mutual, I think I must have sighed. There's a photo of us together. Me looking up at her starstruck. I have no self-control. I should have learned that by my age. The show always leaves me feeling brave and stupid and feral and half lovestruck. And what a show. My whole heart is right there on the rail. If you want to love me, if you want me to love you, I'll see you on the rail. I did kind of marry a show dude. Obviously, that may not be the best course of action.

I made friends. I always do. I bumped into folks I already knew. I always do. I was invited to house shows that apparently require no invitation. All this avoiding social media is not good for that sort of thing. I'm not snubbing anyone, I promise. Message me. Please. I'm lonely, but I also want nothing to do with...whatever it is. It innit cute. It's not interaction. I wish it were that. It's way less than that. Maybe it's gossip. I keep trying to think it's not that. I've never been that interesting. That's the thing. I am? I had no idea. So that part is fun. The "Someone has to take her down" and "Do you know about her divorce?" is the less fun. 

I know all of this writing is exhibitionist. Someone said recently that it feels like reading my journal. Well, because it is that. I guess that leaves me open to all sorts of things I want to avoid. But I can't stop writing. I cannot. If I do, I may die. And I'm not being dramatic. I think that part of my makeup is that I will bare my soul to anyone who wants to see it, come what may. I mean, we all have our secrets, but most of the secrets I hold aren't my own.

I'm coming to terms with being attractive to folks. Like broadly. Where I come from, you don't tell children that. It's vanity. It's pride. Funny thing, I've never met a more devout, good example of our faith who was more vain than my grandmother. She looks at me Friday when I'm there reading a book as ever "What are you doing, beautiful?" Could have knocked me over with a feather. She has never called me beautiful. I don't think anyone in my family did. The closest she got was when I was 17. I was tan. My natural blonde hair in a bob, straightened. I was  helping my baby brother get ready for prom. I was  going to a rodeo. I wore a cream halter, with tiny flowers and jeans. I did look lovely. She said "You'll never be prettier than you are right now." I have news. I've aged well. I was a beautiful girl. I am so much more than that as a grown ass woman.  Any of you gossiping motherfuckers would be lucky for me to take you down. Fuck all of you. Actually, don't. I thought they were the evolved men. Some of them are, but mostly not, apparently. I guess this is the time to learn. I'm the age. I hate that it took me this long. I deserved better than that. I always did.

I thought I was plain. Of my hair "we all need something to keep us humble." For fucks' sake. I cultivated everything else because I wasn't pretty. I tried to be smart and poised and interesting and well-rounded because my looks would never get me by like that beautiful, stupid girl in school. I envied her so much. Who knew?

That's the thing in the light of all this. This is the exact same pussy it was all that time. And no one bothered much with gossip after high school, when the boy I loved rejected me because of a sexual history that was only rumor. I was a good girl. But in those days, what you didn't give freely didn't excuse it from counting and he couldn't tell the difference. I couldn't tell either. I told then. And it didn't matter. I wasn't loud enough. Can any of you even imagine that?

I think I'll finish this glass and go to bed. See what sleep I can get. I never sleep well after a few drinks. You'd think I would have learned that by now too. It's well into tomorrow at this point. But I guess some nights are just like that in Suwanee, Georgia.


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