friday night at the chevron.
it is the night of my birthday party, and i need to buy ice.
i have dressed in a silky pink shirt with spaghetti straps, grey pants, and black heels. i've taken pains with my makeup, trying to a achieve a smoky-eyed look. but i am 30. and i am dissatisfied with my outfit; i do not feel as put together as i would like. if only i had the right accessories. and the smoky eyes? i feel like shadows make my eyes look tired.
i grab a five pound bag of ice from outside and walk into the tiny chevron, where there is a long line of people, mostly younger mexican men. it looks as if many have just gotten off work and stopped at the chevron for beer. some with singles; others with six-packs; still others with more substantial boxes of beer.
i am conspicuously overdressed. i am also one of two women in the store. the other is older, in lounge clothes, disshelved white hair, and noticeable whiskers sprouting from her chin.
needless to say, i am the belle of the ball. the guys in front of me are casting glances. i think that one of them even mumbles something to me about the long line. and even though i don't feel as "put together" as i would like, i'm beginning to realize that it's all about context.
i'm the most beautiful girl at the chevron off I-35 on friday night.
i approach the cashier, and he charges me $2.05 for my bag of ice. i hand him my twenty dollar bill. as he begins to count out my ninety-five cents in change, i look up at him through my lashes and say, "you're not really going to give me ninety-five cents, are you?'' he looks at me with an "aw shucks" expression on his face, and hands me a dollar.
"thank you."
it's a small victory. but when you're thirty, sometimes you need to prove that you can be queen of chevron on friday night.
@>-->>---
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