Anything Lime

Next stop: Milan

For the first time since hacking my hair off, I whipped out my curling iron two days ago and gave myself a quirky little style change. I was 20 minutes late to work because I wanted to get every last inch of my hair swirling like a ribbon dancer at a gay pride parade. I took a picture with my phone to document it because I knew that by the time I was halfway through my day at work, it would have fallen into a droopy, stick-straight  mess. Which would have proved that the 20 minutes I came late to work would have been for nothing (even though I choose to hit the snooze button five or 10 or 19 times and am late to work EVERY SINGLE MORNING!).

So glad I was wrong. Hours later my coworkers were still complimenting me on my bouncy, swingy locks that, let’s face it, I couldn’t be more proud of, and no one was more surprised than I was that they remained in tact.

Pulling out of the parking lot after the day was done, I realized I had left my phone in my desk, which is, living in these times, the equivalent of forgetting to put on your clothes, OR YOUR FACE. I executed a driving maneuver that I was too embarrassed to even tell Patrick about later that evening, mostly because the only reason I didn’t get into an accident was sheer luck. I pulled back into my work lot, hopped out of my car, shrugged off my coat and tossed it back into my car. It was about this time that my life started happening in slow motion as a gush of hot Florida wind came blowing toward my face. I did what any girl standing in front of a giant fan on the set of a movie who never got to live her dream as one day becoming a Victoria’s Secret model would do, I seized an opportunity. There I was, poised with my still intact curls blowing in the most perfect wind Mother Nature could ever conjure up, inspired to unleash my walk. I strutted through that parking lot with my lips pursed, my eyes fierce and my cheekbones looking as anorexic as I could make them appear. The asphalt was my runway. Poetic, almost. 

Though, this moment, however precious to me, meant nothing but annoyance for the drivers looking to rush away from work. The booming sound of a horn in my face yanked me violently back to reality. I jumped straight into the air, ignored the profanities seeping out of the driver’s side window and trotted toward the door of my building. A smile took shape on my face as I reached for the door handle.

It turns out I hadn’t left my phone at my desk. My trip back had been for nothing. My illegal and potentially homicidal driving had been for nothing. But my once-in-a-lifetime runway moment (yes, once-in-a-lifetime, I’m only 5’6″ people! Speaking optimistically, of course) was totally worth it. It’s not every day I can just let go and feel free and good and not care what other, apparently impatient drivers eager to leave their place of business think about me. I didn’t care about any of that. And it was awesome.


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