We Hate Her, Right?

This week I met a lady from my past, again. She called up, established she was a local, told me her name, which sounded really distinctive, but also familiar. You may not know this already, but the town I live in is crazy small. For the probably 66% I already know in some way, whether by name, face, annoying child, bad driving habits, mischief made, or crazy haircut, I remember about 10% of immediately why I remember them. The others I have to ask about. And then she hits me with an experience I had almost pushed to the limits of memory and the whole feeling of who I was at 19, and how different I am now.

Children, close your eyes, and harken back to your 19 year-old self. I personally was living with a dude and two cats in a duplex in a house. At this particular time I was taking a summer class in creative writing. I was also smoking copious amounts of weed with a good friend every day. On our way to class, we would often decide we should just go to the movies instead. When we did attend, we were usually high as shit, and would get very excited for our nightly pee-between-the-cars-in-the-parking-lot after class ritual. I can only imagine the number of times I probably came home with urine on my cuffs from cement splashback and never realized it. So chic. So this woman, the one who called up and booked rooms at the inn, was in this class. Not only was she in the class, but I remembered that she was maybe one of three people who still stand out in my memory, and she was the super weird, kind of bitchy, terrible writer. She had been a lawyer, then become a 3rd grade teacher in the Bronx, and every time she opened her mouth we were all reminded of her career change. She always wrote on legal pads, is that what lawyers do? I thought she was a teacher... Anyway, when she told me where the hell we should know each other from I knew there was no playing like I had a clue of what was happening during that class. I have no idea how I was able to summon the short story I actually wrote for the class, but I totally remembered her and how much I severely hated her. But hey, she was booking at least two nights, maybe more, meaning money for me and only a few short days of her, even if she turned out to be as annoying as I remember. She commented that she remembered me being both in my "camouflage phase" and as "pretty wasted". I'm so glad I made a good impression. And now she was coming to stay at my house, where I would be her "host." I immediately called said "good friend" and asked her if she remembered this woman's name. My friend couldn't quite remember, but she said "Hmm, we hate her right?" So, I held my breath and greeted this woman with open arms. She's actually not that bad. And she even admitted herself, (no help from me), that she was a terrible writer.

In other news, I've decided to take a tap class. Yes folks, tap. I took many years of dance as a child, forced my friends and relatives to go to annual, 4 hour recitals, and dressed up in garish costumes for showtunes numbers and ballet. It was completely ridiculous, but fun all the same. The dance school I attended had all sorts of body types, not just the muscular, dancer type. So no one felt like they had to be perfect and there were all sorts of girls with big boobs who had a terrible time bouncing around a lot. There were also strange-hipped girls, cheerleaders, hippies, morons and the like. It was a very well-rounded studio. But it was also strict about uniforms and I never realized how disciplined we had to be for that type of thing until now. It's been about 8 years since I took a dance class. A fellow alumni from dance school asked if I might be interested in taking a tap class together and I decided it was about time to get my cheese on again. We immediately went shopping for tap shoes. It was mad fun, but it also made me feel 16 again. We got a bit concerned when we didn't know what we were supposed to wear to class and called the teacher, and she sounded so relaxed and nice when she basically said to wear whatever we wanted, just to make sure she could see our feet. It was a nice feeling, like this could be actually fun and not stressful at all. Can't guarantee I'll make it to a recital though.

This weekend, I'm headed up to a Hudson Valley themed dinner at another inn. It's called Buttermilk Falls. I'm getting comped by a friend I know there who used to work here. Ex-coworker friends are good.