Red Shoes to Dance the Blues
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.
After yesterday’s eight hour battle royale, between my brain and architectural/structural drawings that culimanted in me fitfully removing my gloves after a brutal TKO from the drawings, I’m back. I eventually gained a spring in my step and an optimistic viewpoint for this day. I will pull the gloves from retirement. I will don them again. I will engage in another battle royale, and I will be triumphant.
I’ve jumped into the ring again because, well, I love my job. And, I think I’m good at it. That and if I don’t work here, I may be so emotionally destroyed by the defeat that I will only be able to get a job at Capelli’s Gentelman Barbershop hyphen (understood, but not expressed) whorehouse. Where they require their silicone-d and cake makeup women to wear low cut shirts and invest in pushup bras. I’ll be billed as the “All-Natural” one. They will ask me not to talk, because I insult shallow men that need haircuts performed by busty idiots. The Man will leave me. Total devastation.
Anyway. I do love my job and also, today is PAYDAY. And FRIDAY. And ST. PATRICK’S DAY WEEKEND. But the last one doesn’t really mean anything ‘cause we aren’t doing anything. And we are THIS MUCH closer to Mariner’s regular season baseball. And tomorrow I will be purchasing a Sansa Clip so I can retire my ancient iPod. Either way, knowing the above, I pulled on a pair of flattering jeans, let my hair down (I always wear it up at work), strapped on my favorite shoes and set out for work. Red shoes to dance the blues. I will conquer and prevail.
Leaving the house I pulled out the ancient iPod, savoring the feeling that this may be my third to last time I will ever use it and it’s 4+ years old music (it’s a MAC formatted iPod, I haven’t been able to change music since I got it, damn the ex-boyfriend); third to last because I need it for the gym at my lunch hour and for the walk home. Through the gently misting rain of Seattle’s downtown street, I strutted. I strutted the strut that can only be strutted by a person who KNOWS, beyond a doubt, that she has the coolest, most rad and beautiful shoes on and no one, no one! has shoes on that compete. Not even the lady with eggplant colored suede (hello, rain?) ankle boots with buckles that are lined in fake eggplant-colored fur (hello, foot sweat?). A strut complete with pendulum-like swinging of my wide child-bearing hips - that I have come to appreciate because they balance out my oversized chest and carry my high and mighty toosh proudly - and a Cheshire cat grin. As I listened to David Bowie’s Modern Love. My big teased hair swishing in the wind underneath my umbrella. I got looks. Oh sure I did. But mostly from dudes and the looks said “I wanna know what you are smiling about.” I’m smiling about anticipated domination.
As soon as I arrived to my humble work abode, I met with the lead attorney on the case that has given me brain warts. Him, preparing for a deposition, told me that my documents I had supplied in preparation for this deposition turned out to be important. In fact he needed them, which he originally thought I was wasting paper by copying, then wasting his time by explaining them, then wasting valuable space by leaving them on his desk. I did a GOOD JOB. It shines an entirely different light on our case and my angle, that I have been following on a hunch, tackling drawings and specifications and details is the right angle. The skies have parted. The Universe is shining down on my shiny brunette hair. It is saying, “Fluer, girlfriend, you KNOW. You follow your hunch.” And dammit, it’s all worthwhile again.
If it wasn’t 10.30a, I’d rejoice with a bottle of wine. Aw hell. It's Friday. I should live a little. |
