Zen

My friend, Grant, texted me last night with the message, "Rumor @ 11:30." He wanted to introduce me to friends of his that he thought I would like. Grant had told me of two African American gentlemen that he was sure I would drool over. I was already in bed and contemplated getting up to go meet him. Rumor is an upscale nightclub with $12 gin & tonics, house music, and fashionably dressed (mostly white) people trying really hard to get noticed. I laid in bed for twenty minutes thinking about the snowy weather, the lack of parking, the red velvet guarded line, and my lack of slutty club attire. I really don't have anything to wear to clubs. I'm always under dressed and simultaneously amazed at the lengths women go to look cheap and ashamed that I still don't know how to use an eye pencil or hair rollers. This is an oddity since my mother was a licensed hair professional and wouldn't leave the house without her hair coiffed and make-up applied no matter what. When I required stitches after ramming my wrist into the front door window pane, my mother wrapped my hand in a towel and made me wait as she cried intermittently between guilt inducing stares and applying make-up. I decided to stay home. I don't often stay awake past 11 pm unless I have insomnia. The morning brought serene snowfall. It is really beautiful in Boston this morning.