I'm Too Sexy...
I live in a bustling area of the city, surrounded by hotels and restaurants and shops, which translates to ... traffic. At rush hour, cars move with the speed of peanut butter through a straw. This is my favorite time to walk. Nothing makes me happier than the sound of road rage when I am not in a car.
At the first corner, we stopped to sniff a garbage can. The dog, not me. I watched as a BMW tried to skirt thru a yellow light without success. The horn honking decibel level rose SST jet proportions. I stuffed the ear buds into my ears and meandered across the intersection, trotting as happily as my dog. At the far curb, someone whooped at me. Not a road rage whoop, but a man after a woman whoop. I was flattered. No one has whooped at me in years. I lifted my chin and continued walking with a little lilt to my step. I was whooped at! How fantastic.
Past the next corner, the dog squatted down. This is the humiliating part of owning a dog in the city. I unfurled the poop bag from the nifty pouch dangling from the leash and adjusted the music on my iPod. From behind me, a car full of young men called out. "Yeah, yeah, yeah!" I turned to see four hands fist-pumping the air, a four-fisted salute. As I was the only person standing on that particular corner, it seemed reasonably conclusive that they were saluting me. I straightened my spine and bent to pick up the doo, jutting a hip in the process a la Beyonce. I've still got it, I thought as I twirled the dog shit bag into a knot.
We walked to the end of the block and turned onto a parkway that deposits traffic onto one of the city's many bridges. I stood three feet from a car's open window, waiting to cross. The driver leaned toward the window and extended a very enthusiastic 'thumbs up' along with a healthy grin. I, of course, smiled in return while trying to remember what I looked like that day. Had I fixed my hair? Put on mascara?
I bounded across the street to Uptown Funk, clipping my gait to match the pulsating beat. Once I'd sashayed safely across, I jumped onto the curb using a motion I'd learned in Zumba class and side-stepped, glissaded, onto the footpath. Oh, I was so smooth! Take that, J. Lo. I shimmied my shoulders, a gesture entirely lost in that oversized light blue sweatshirt. Oh yeah, I am so hot.
The Black Eyed Peas sang, Boom Boom Pow, and with every Pow I thrusted out a hip, despite vigorous warnings from the tenacious tendons keeping my joints assembled and in proper alignment. I felt like I was 25 again, indestructible and oh so attractive.
I was in mid-boogie stride, totally digging the music and the sunshine and the attention, when I heard the voice of a young man call out: "Tar Heel Nation!" I paused briefly to ascertain its origin and, at that moment, it occurred to me that I might be misreading the focus of all this attention.
And then it happened. A steady voice chanted:
"Tar!"
The answering call was not far behind:
"Heels!"
I was wearing my son's Carolina sweatshirt. Carolina blue. And UNC had just secured a spot in the Sweet 16.
Whoop. Whoop.
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
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