Rocky and I were at Thrift Pimp the other day when we ran into a semi-familiar face. By the glowy look in her eyes, her neo-hippie affect, I could tell she was a member of the group I sometimes dance with. I greeted her, and we got into a conversation.
“How come we don’t see you at dance any more?” she asked.
“It got too crazy to take the little one to.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, people get into their rhythm, and forget to take care around the kids. It’s getting too crowded. I’ve had my glasses knocked off my face there, I’ve been knocked over . . . it’s
just getting too crazy.”
“Don’t you think that should be her choice?” Huh?
“Uh . . . well, no, actually. I’m her mom; it’s my job to protect her.”
“But that’s the way the real world is. You can’t protect her from that.”
The Real World? Excuse, Ms. – what was your name? August Jupiter Light-Prism? In MY Real World, a bunch of sexually-charged, middle-aged, sarong-wearing New Age men and culturally-appropriating, belly-dancing white women don’t go cavorting around flailing their limbs, heedless of the smaller people they’re about to punch in the head.