Fellow lifts his arms up for a stretch and his shirt rides up just enough to show off some male cleavage, as my friend Carmen Paterson calls it. Fellow, an RMT, says a little warily, “ahem. That’s the inguinal crease…why….?” He knows I’m writing. He’s getting used to me saying slightly embarrassing things.
We’re both getting back to our “fighting weight”. I got chubby post operation; he put on a bit because of my cooking, he says. I swished around today in my little black suit that is getting loose on me now, high heels and red lips and a great do. Men are back to saying hi and opening doors and stopping to chat. A gal today told me she liked my shoes. I don’t think it’s the ten pounds so much as me feeling like I have my mojo back. I look in the mirror and recognize myself.
I have three auditions this afternoon and improvise wildly on the third one, hoping for a laugh from the director who has been seeing people all bloody day. He chuckles. He throws me another bone. I make him laugh again. It’s so fun when auditioning is fun.
I go pick up my girl from the tap society. She’s all rosy cheeked and smeared with black from the dance floor. She gets her mojo back when she’s here, curls plastered to her forehead, little legs all played out. She has first seconds and thirds at dinner. Fellow has cooked up a wild salmon because I was running late. Can this guy get greater? The Boy is playing baby Michael Jackson and the high voice is driving me mad after a long day but I am just so delighted he’s here, drawing happily at the table. I suck it up with MJ and even tolerate the surprising chaser of Styx.
Over dinner we start to hear the rain. Ooh, it’s coming down hard! Good. I never thought I’d say this while living in Vancouver, but it is music to my ears. We don’t want a drought again. Nope. Not like last year. We’re getting our mojo back, I’m planting annuals bravely in the flower boxes and I believe in green green green.
