Dancing Queen

Dear Butch,

I failed to accomplish anything on my to-do list this weekend.  This is a major no-no in my world and I am hanging my head low.

I am a busy lady.  I have a fairly intense schedule of work, volunteering, and teaching.  I carry my planner, which is in paper format, with me everywhere I go in fear that I might forget that I squeezed in a meeting between a work lunch and picking up my nephew from school.  I love having a schedule, planning my days, and arriving five minutes early.  I run on high octane.

This weekend, like all my weekends, was incredibly planned out.  I had errands to run, my home to tidy, and social gatherings to attend.  I knew where I was going and who I was meeting.  And then, something changed in me.  Friday was a short day at the office for me and I had no plans in the evening, I was ready to conquer my home with a vacuum and bleach when I got the urge to dance.  I blew off my agenda for the evening, bought a new dress, and proceeded to dance and drink the evening away.  And from there, all hell broke loose.  I slept in late both mornings, showered after the clock stuck noon, and threw the planner out the window.  I danced agin on Saturday evening, twirling under the lights and laughing with my head thrown back.  I drank more then I have in a long time and flirted my way through a crowded bar.  I wore red lipstick and black eyeliner.  I became a weekend warrior of the nail polish variety.  I ate pizza at 2:00 am and ate ice cream at 10:00 am.  I broke the routine and the rules.

So, here I sit on Sunday night in an untidy home eating peanut butter toast because I never made it to the grocery store.  I just received a passive aggressive email from a friend asking me if I was all right because I missed a community service planning meeting on Saturday afternoon.  I still haven’t bothered to removed the glitter from eyelids.  And you know what, it feels fucking fantastic.

The moral of the story my dear butch, my darling handsome, is this…let go and enjoy.  Stop, even for a weekend, trying to micro-manage yourself.  Let your faux-hawk fall and put on your dancing shoes.  You won’t regret it.




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