The thing I miss most about bars, I think, is walking home.
I love walking home. I love leaving a place that’s too hot or loud or dull and going out into the cold.
This is why people smoke, I think–other than the obvious which is that it’s fucking cool and feels good. People go for a smoke because they want to walk home, but aren’t ready to leave. That’s what I think, at least.
It’s not the stumble-home-drunk that I liked–no I liked the runny nose, tangled headphones, heeled-boots clunking through slush.
I was walking home with my roommate last winter, dear reader. It was cold and snowy and I had on a jacket much longer than my skirt.
We walked by a group of older women sitting on their porch–complete strangers having a fucking blast. We waved and yelled hello, and they invited us up without question. We talked, we sat, we met the kids who threw open the door and ran outside in slippers. It was great.
I spoke most to a woman with short, blonde hair and skinny legs. She was funny and callous and I liked her immediately. I asked her what she loved to do.
“Pole dancing.”
My eyes are already big, dear reader–buggish you might say–but I like to imagine them grinch’s-heart-style in that moment. Just absolutely obliterating my skull.
“I want to do that.”
She gave me her number, and I called her the next day.
I got a few lessons, the worst bruise I’ve ever had, and a solid gold homie.
I love walking home.
It’s not just from bars, though that is a five star walk. I like having a good, long transition from being around, to being at home. I like the stuff that happens in between.
I like that I can do it myself, too. That I don’t need anyone or anything–just my legs. And maybe some phone battery.
I can get home, just me, and I like knowing that.
For now, dear reader, don’t go out. But, if you’d like to and are able, go for a walk. It feels good.
I love you. Lots.
Please take care.
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 