Stylin'? At the Red Maple
how grown she is. She even found a place last night on a Monday
night, and you should have seen her face when I agreed to go. She
got all dolled up, put on her short shorts and her cute top, then
yanked her hair up into a pony tail so that it wouldn't look like she
exerted too much effort.
It was Monday night after all.
We ended up at the Red Maple in downtown Baltimore.
At first the place looked deserted. Truth be told, I was a little
worried, but I soon discovered that you had to walk in, go all t he
way back and down a few stairs to find the folks.
She stopped at the bar to buy me a drink (more display of her her
grown-ness), and it immediately struck me that there were about fifty
women in the place and three men. And if you left out the two of us,
the three men had more hair than all of the rest of the women combined.
Most of the women were on the floor dancing, and when they put on
"Walk it out" my sister hopped on the dance floor too.
She walked it out and beckoned to me to join her.
I wasn't doing that.
I mean, I can do it, its just is not cool.
She's a few years younger than I am, and she hasn't learned yet that
style is not a democracy.
Just because something is in, doesn't mean you should do it or wear it.
She did the soldier dance and I watched the other women do that too.
Most looked cool, save one women in almost spandex pants. One of her
legs was bigger then two of mine put together, and no one wanted to
see tree trunks move that way. I say again, fashion is over-rated.
E'rything isn't for E'rybody.
She whined it up.
Okay, I did that.
She did some other stuff with no name that looked illegal.
I watched of course, but after a few minutes, the ponytails were shot
to hell and the hair came down.
It seemed like the women in the room stopped dancing and looked at us
like someone scratching a broken record.
Didn't we know this was the hair club for men only?
We ignored them, and my sister (new name, Energizer Bunny) kept on
doing her thing and I kept watching the other women dance with
themselves while men stood around and watched like pre-pubescent 12
year olds.
Some women could really dance, but they obviously missed the nuances
of club-ism. You see, they were looking good moving, but they were
moving so much in their ladylike outfits, it was dissonant.
Sweat REALLY messes up your look.
Other women were having sex on the dance floor, only there were no
men involved.
They were dancing with themselves.
I guess they knew they were going to get theirs tonight.
I kept thinking, "In this room full of women, I REALLY don't need to
see you do that. Is it all necessary?"
As the new day waxed, one woman came over to talk to us.
I thought maybe she knew one of us.
Instead, she wanted to know if my hair was real.
I wanted to order another drink but the first dirty martini had
olives in it that had pimentos in the middle. That was just wrong.
I finally couldn't take it anymore and reminded Energizer that she
would hate life in the morning. While I was sleeping, she had to go
to work. She was going to be sucking on Red Bull like baby sucks
his pabulum.
We walked to the car and she looked at me and asked why hadn't my
makeup slid off my face.
I blinked and calmed told her--"Style, baby sis. Style."
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