If I Could Just Leave my Body for the Night

Last night I went to see Paul Taylor (aka ballet lite, aka dudes in spandex lederhosen hopping around to Age of Aquarius, aka the dance company my grandparents mistakenly assume is my favorite, much like when I was little and my grandmother bought me a blueberry muffin at the Bayshore ferry dock every weekend on our way to Fire Island, and even though I was apathetic at best about blueberry muffins, I pretended they were my favorite because I was way too afraid of her to protest).

My night, it wasn't great. It was emotionally overloaded from the start - relationships with certain members of my family (2 of 3 are gma and papa) have been strained and damaged since Thanksgiving - so I probably was reading into everything a too closely. Grandma can be awfully harsh sometimes (see: calling me a "disgusting monster" for "ruining Thanksgiving") even under the best of circumstances, so who knows what the problem was. Maybe she was just in a bad mood? Maybe my cold (my sniffling/pallid complexion) irritated her. Maybe it was my refusal to admit that there are any potential romantic interests in my office. Maybe it was fraught for her too.

Whatever the reason, I started crying in the middle of the bad dancing, and tears, my friends, are the worst offense of all. Fortunately I had my cold as an excuse for puffy eyes and a runny nose at intermission.