These Shoes Were Made for Dancing...?

Okay. Clearly these shoes weren't made for dancing. God bless the folks at Sigerson Morrison. I love these shoes, but they don't win the comfort award. Still, every single time I wear them when I'm out of town, not expecting anything from a night, tired and ravenous... I end up dancing all night in them. In Florida, with two random guys I met at a restaurant. In Virginia, with two random guys I met at a restaurant. Both sets of guys asked me to join them. And we talked. Ate. Danced. And had fun. They bought me dinner. Drinks. They didn't try anything or expect anything (neither did I, by the way). Which was nice. They were just... fun. Which certainly beat the experience with Boston guy. More fun to dance with guys than to run from them, I've decided. And now that I've done both in the span of a week, I feel like I'm a pretty good authority on the subject.

Today, after getting lost for an hour in the morning. And a half hour in the evening, I got to visit a friend I haven't seen since her wedding. I got to see her house and her husband and her little people (aka- kids). I just met the kids for the first time. They are so adorable. And well behaved. Smart. And Emily? She looks great, is great and just basically has got it going on. She's still the same person with her kids that she was when I met her. Real. It's like no time has passed. I love that. She thinks I belong on the east coast. That the west coast is over for me... Maybe. I do wonder. I do think these trips have some sort of meaning behind them. Some reason for being. Besides wearing me out, dehydrating my skin, giving me separation anxiety from my cats and friends-- oh, and the good stuff-- like seeing old friends and new places. I think it's letting me see I could leave LA. I could open my world just a little wider. It wouldn't be the worst thing and might be the best. Yes, it's true. I'd move. From LA. For a job or a man or to write. I never thought I'd say that. But again, I'm looking for solutions.

After hanging out with Emily, I decided to go get coleslaw from KFC. KFC is in the mini mall outside my hotel. Yes, my fancy unComfortable Inn. We used to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken when I was growing up. Back in the days it was Kentucky Fried Chicken and not KFC. When the Colonel was in commercials. Usually my dad took us to get it when he was picking us up for his alternate weekend visit. I don't think I've stepped inside a KFC since then. But I was hungry. And coleslaw. I felt like coleslaw. So I figured why not? It beat the Zone bar diet for a day.

Well I have news. KFC is not your daddy's Kentucky Fried Chicken. Now they have wraps and salads and sandwiches and all sorts of interesting things. Who knew? Still, I stuck to my coleslaw order. But cool to see. Even KFC found a way to make it work. Solutions, people. I'm working on it.

Then, in the elevator with me... a cute guy. Also being unComfortable, apparently. And he hit on me in the elevator. Well, kind of. I will say it, it's not a bad thing to hear "goodnight beautiful" before bed. He got off at 3. Then asked if I had a boyfriend as the doors began to shut. I said, "No." And he asked my name. "Beautiful"? It works wonders.