I sit on the seat I always sit on when I am skipping class.

The metal stool at the blue-painted wooden table in the northwest corner of Gravel City Roasters by the massive, ceiling-to-floor window front. Right tucked up against the window, as if I were outside with the sunshine itself.

My customary class-skipping double-espresso, featured today in a ladybug 2.75oz cup, rests drained next to the mason jar of water; yes, thank you, I am a student, thank you I will put the saved 15-cents towards rent.

I don’t recommend skipping class, of course. You are paying for the whole experience it doesn’t serve you to just not go.

But sometimes it happens that the scheduled events for the day in the class you are currently missing–according to the crinkly syllabus that you acquired on the first day which has been thenceforward shoved into various places–are inferior to the list of tasks that have been scheduled for the entirety of the day–this of course being out of your control–and if you wish to attend the American Sign Language Class’s poetry reading scheduled for this evening but still must adhere to the list that you have scheduled for your own sanity/opportunity to graduate, well then:

Priorities must be set. Classes must be skipped. Espresso must be sipped.

So I am here tucked underneath the blue-painted wooden table feeling the rays of sun snuggle against the pane of glass.

I had been listening to tmsoft’s White Noise Sleep Sounds “Train” on repeat for the last hour and a half–feeling very much voyageratious–when a whispy grey-haired women wearing leggings of galactic predestination clanged open the front door.

She ordered a “BlackMochaFrostPleaseExtraFrost” for “that’ll-be-$4.44” and slowly nestled herself into the righthand side of the black leather couch to my left.

It was difficult to pay attention to the book I was reading and the espresso I was sipping with her legs–adorned in swirls of pinks and ghosts–fluttering up and down as she waited for her drink to be made ready.

I was not annoyed at the interruption in the mind-control effect the book I was reading had over me, however.

I was enchanted.

Here we have a woman, in her late-60’s maybe early-90’s, looking positively delighted at the plastic cup of ornate extravagence she has just been handed by the ponytailed barista. She is a minefield of wrinkles and pooches that would outshine any Shar Pei and her whispy locks of steel are chucked up on top of her head in a floppy knot.

And she’s drawing attention to herself through her Rorschach-ink-blot-test leggings.

She’s my hero.

I don’t know how her leggings are making her feel, but they are making me feel like giving a firm middle-finger to societal standards of beauty and acceptability.

She is owning them.

She is owning the world.

Actually, quite symbolically, she is owning the galaxy.

To the Woman on my left: I honor you. May your boldness emancipate the cautious. May your excitement infect the pure. May your leggings of celestial memorandums shine ever on.

Peace and Blessings,

Josie

 

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