Barn Dance

Dancing the Cotton-Eyed Joe was my favorite, not because I could do the simple line dance without tripping over my feet or because I liked country music. It was my favorite because I got to freely holler–BULL-SHIT!–at the top of my lungs without cowering at my little silent angel self who sat on my right shoulder coaching me into possible sainthood.

My little devil self who sat on my left shoulder jabbed her pointed little tail and pitchfork into me in time to the music. And she made me laugh. And told me it was okay to let loose and have a good time.

Little angel self firmly kept little devil self in check that wouldn’t allow her to go past that dance. No beer. No wine coolers. No running around with the wrong crowd after hours. I mingled with some of them, but veered off in a different direction once my dose of fun expired. When the clock neared midnight. Well, 10:30 or 11:00, and long before I had half a chance to lose a golden slipper that resembled a knock off penny loafer, here came my ride. Usually my mom, I saw her car’s headlights coming up the driveway.

First one to get picked up, unless my friend T was allowed out of the house. Her parents were worse than mine. She wasn’t here tonight so there I go, embarrassed at being the one to leave first.

I have to go!

I say goodbye to my friends and the music, just as the fun gains momentum and my confidence started taking off. I look wistfully behind my shoulder heading toward the car, wondering about the stories I’ll hear Monday morning.