Guest post from Compulsive Writer. A few friends had gathered at a hotel for the weekend. The wedding of one of our daughters. We were piled on the bed talking, laughing, crying. Then CW and I realized we needed to make a trip down to the lobby, so we headed toward the elevator. CW tells the rest of the story.
She was wearing a sleeveless black party dress. We joined her in the elevator on the 2nd floor, wrapping up in hushed tones our insignificant conversation about social media. Melody was decked out in pale-blue flannel vacation p.j.s. I was sporting soft-cotton grey pajama pants with tiny butterflies (I keep thinking they're doves--they're not) and a t-shirt. We both looked up as the woman started to speak.
"If your boyfriend spent the entire evening going on and on about how beautiful another woman is, would you be ticked off?"
You could feel the tiny traces of testosterone floating around in that sea of estrogen rise up like a rogue wave and crash against the faux-wood walls of the elevator.
Our respective eyebrows raised in unison. We smiled. And nodded our respective heads in solidarity.
"Oh yea-ah!"
Though the sting in her heart was still visible in her eyes, relief and validation spread across her face as the elevator doors opened and she disembarked on the first floor.
"OK. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't all in my head," she said, making a beeline for the hotel exit.
We wished her well and continued to the front desk, where upon observing us, a friendly man accompanying a happy 10-year-old boy proclaimed,
"Pajama party in 206!"
He has no idea.
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