02.10.2003 - 1:53 p.m.

(Written last night.)

(Ah, one AM. Thank you, Coca-Cola. I needed to drive home, and you were there for me, and for that I owe you my life. But now I kind of wish I could sleep.)

I was in Annapolis tonight, at a cello concert at St. John�s College. And this is why I will never describe myself as cultured: Sometimes when I�m at a concert, or a reading, or church, it will only keep half of my attention. The other half of my brain will be thinking of decidedly uncultured things, like dancing at the club the night before, or about fending off the skeezes on our way out of Baltimore. Their lines were absolutely inspired that night, I am telling you.

�How ya doin, baby?� from a car in the garage while we are walking up to our car. �Can I ride with you?� from a guy who�d just got out of the car next to us, knocking on Kat�s window at a stoplight. (Insert lockage of car doors here.) �What�s up, sweetheart?� from a carful of guys a few lights later.

Why don�t they just tell me how good I look? It seems like a compliment of some kind might get them farther. Pet names don�t really count unless they are lots more creative than �sweetheart,� and anyway I don�t need to be �baby� when you could just ask my name.

But you know, it is a pretty nice compliment, I think, to know that you dressed up to look fabulous six hours ago, and that even after the smoke and sweat and the letting down of hair, it is still working. I am still getting used to thinking of myself as worth wanting, and it feels good.

(May I go to bed yet, oh caffeine-laced heartbeat, oh racing mind? Please?)

We were at the cello concert for my Mom�s birthday; before that, we went out to dinner at this Irish pub, where my parents paid (yay) and my Mom kept pointing out to me that our waiter was not only Irish and really cute, but also had no ring on his finger.

I don�t know that I am comfortable trying to pick someone up in front of my Mom, and more specifically, in front of my youngest two brothers. But while I was listening to the cello, I was thinking that I could have slipped him my number. And that maybe next time, I will. Sort of like next time I am propositioned from the fast lane, maybe I will roll down my window and tell them to can the line and just tell me how hot I am. I am sure they�ll be willing to exaggerate.

�Do you know how to get out?� Mom asked me after the concert, since they were going north and I south.

�I�ll figure it out,� I answered, a bit of dialogue which is meaningful in some important way, but I think I am getting tired enough not to bother pulling it out.

They tore up West Street, which was a problem because everything I know about getting around up there depends on my position relative to West Street. (insert impromptu tour of backroads here) But I did find my way out.

(My body is beating you, caffeine. Too little sleep, and so much dancing, and you cannot win.)

If I lived in a city I�d go dancing every weekend. I don�t know why, I don�t know what about it is so wonderful, because it�s something different than just feeling sexy. I forget about everything else, when I dance. It just feels good.

-stonebridge

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