Ode To Awesomeness 2

Every now and then, once in every second blue moon, I am fortunate enough to witness the persona of someone change to such a degree that it leaves me breathless, confused and a little gobsmacked.

 I ran into Her at one of the few available bar tables at The Party. Over heaping plates of Greek salad, pulled pork and chili we picked up quickly from the last time we'd been together.  The conversation often begins with books and ends up somewhere delectably inappropriate. But something was amiss today, I could tell right away. There was a twinkle lurking behind the retro glasses that hadn't been there last time.  Or the 50 times before that. The other ladies at the table could sense it too, but they weren't letting on yet.

Perhaps it was the dress, thrift store chic, of which the bottom 6 inches had been obliterated just prior to The Party by an unscrupulous set of sewing scissors. A jagged Wilma Flinstone effect that seemed to have taken more weight off than just a hemline could.  She was walking a little lighter.

She began to skitter around The Party like a curious kitten, creeping in and out of conversations and selfies like a Where's Waldo, disappearing for a moment then coming up somewhere else.  It was getting creepy.

Then The Thing happened.  Not one drink, not two, but all of our drinks were coming up empty.  I needed to apologize to the bartender, "I'm not an alcky, really.  I don't understand how my glass keeps going empty."  The bartender was not sympathetic, scrutinizing me with a wary eye.  Wilma F. was now moving through the crowded Party at a blurred Haley's cometesque pace.

And just when I caught on to the sleight-of-hand-disappearing-drink-trick, and I sat back smugly awaiting the dance floor face plant of the century, She blossomed into the Abba dancing queen, light as air, fluid and poetic in motion.  The men couldn't resist Her,

the tent poles couldn't shake Her,

and all the girls began to hate Her.  She was as free as a butterfly, a mended leg without its cast, Buzz Lightyear with extra jet packs, Cheech Marin on a really great trip...(okay, enough with the bad metaphors already.  You get the picture).

She'd made a left turn that night at the intersection of Prudence and Good Judgement, somewhere East of Albacoykie and arrived at The Party ready to break all the rules.  Yes...THE rules...set in place before time immemorial, that our fathers whipped us so lovingly behind the wood shed to instill.  

And that is what makes her Awesome!  Free-styling Flinstone with the flair for flash dance frivolity.

Who knew?  Who really knew?

I'll be ready next time, Girlfriend.  When the blue moon after next arrives, I'll be ready!