Excerpt from Performing & Telling Your Life

Excuse me? Am I here alone? Oh, no, no….with a friend. She’s over there, somewhere. There she is—black tank top, long hair—see? I don’t know who that man touching her back is, though. And I certainly don’t know why he is wearing a v-neck so tight and low that he has some decent cleavage happening for himself. I’ll let them have their time, I’m fine here. And lord knows, she will tell me all about it later. She’ll tell me that he is Italian or Irish—that he is from Staten Island or he just moved here from Chicago. She’ll tell me that he says he loves her tattoos and is sufficiently impressed that she prefers to drink a manly whiskey on the rocks. Do you know if there are any chairs or benches around?

What? Am I loving my bath time? I can’t hear you, what are you saying? Oh, no! I’m not having a bad time at all, actually. I’m not complaining. I like drinks, I like dancing, I like sitting down with my drinks after dancing. It’s just the scene—it gets exhausting. The makeup, the hair, the shoes, the dress that I can’t sit or stand in yet I had to wear–I am tired before I go anywhere. I always joke that I was born with old person bones-they can’t take all this pressure. And I keep meeting the same kind of people in the same kind of places and they all claim that they are the original ones. It’s my fault though. I usually let her pick the location because I just don’t care enough. Oh, I don’t mean you, though. You seem fine. Normal, maybe.

What? Do I want to dance? No, I’m OK for now, thanks. Actually, I really just want to sit. Wait, where is she? What time is it? This tends to happen. The hours leading up to our girls nights are filled with bribes to get me out of the house and into heels so I can assist her with her conquests. I’m happy to do it, mostly, because—again—I really don’t care and it keeps her happy—but sometimes I wish I got a warning before she goes home with a guy. Just so I know for sure whether we are splitting a cab and I am definitely taking a cab! Do you see these shoes? I mean, I kind of love them and they make me appear Amazonian in a good way but I am sure I will be twisting my ankle within the hour. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if my baby toe were bleeding right now. I now know these are strictly sitting shoes. Oh, well. I won’t worry about it. Anyway, it can get annoying when she does this, although I don’t complain to her and I probably never will. I don’t make waves like that, it’s not worth it. Hey, do you think that ledge over there is sturdy enough to half-sit on? Oh! There she is and –yep—and there she goes. But hey, I got a wave this time as she’s heading out the door! Progress! Wait, do I even have cash for a cab? Who knows. Do I want a drink? Absolutely. Thank you, good sir. Fine, I’ve already committed to the evening, I’ll dance with you. The circulation in my feet is cut off by now anyway. I can’t feel a thing.