I spent the day in downtown Nashville, which should really be spelled Charming. Music wafts through the sidewalks, like we’re all in one big musical, like any second we’re going to gather on the curb and sing songs with choreography.
I visited a shop that sells only cowboy boots, just because I never have. (I think they could tell I never had.) In another store, I tried on a brown and turquoise dress that was so cute on the hanger, and the girl behind the counter told me it looks great with boots. (Boots are a high motivation in this town.) But when I tried it on, I looked exactly like the pictures I’ve seen of my mom when she was pregnant with me in 1979. The style isn’t a problem; I’ve come to terms with the fact that I now often wear things that I chastised her for and insisted I would never wear. The problem is that I looked just about as pregnant as my mom in 1979. Plus, the dress smelled like papier mache. I draw the line just shy of that floury, cornstarch concoction from first grade. (To this day, I’m impressed by Deanna, my art class partner who was willing to put her hands right into that mess. This girl? No, ma’am. I let Deanna do mine.)
I parked myself in the Nashville Public Library for the afternoon, and they happen to have a French cafe that will likely be the setting for some love story I’ll write someday. See? Charm. Ing.
I’m settled into my motel now, and I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve stayed in a motel. I booked it at the last minute, when I decided to come a day early for the bloggers’ breakfast, but there were no more rooms available in my first choice hotel, where I will move in tomorrow. Currently there’s a fly dive bombing my face. And the sign outside the window is for the Big Kmart. I’m living big tonight, ya’ll.
But dude, wait. There’s more. Between my motel and the Big K, there is a real-deal, honest to goodness Cracker Barrel! I worked at a Cracker Barrel in college, which is where I began the ‘Trish’ season of my life since I took the job right after ‘Trish’ quit, so I got her brown apron with the gold script. I never got any gold stars embroidered on there, though, much to the chagrin of the management. I wasn’t willing to take the handwritten tests on service and menu to prove I was a good waitress and to give me a gold star, particularly since I was studying theology and pedagogy theories, and those tests seemed to carry more weight. I just wasn’t Cracker Barrel leadership material.
I’m so totally going over there tonight. I’ll do my Christmas shopping in the gift shoppe, and I’ll order the vegetable plate. And they’ll serve me all my sides in separate bowls, so my meal will hardly fit on the table. And I’ll feel so indulgent. I’ll play that Pegs in the Triangle game, only to find, almost certainly, that all these years later I am still an ignoramus.
It’s entirely possible that I will come home with a Tennessee accent, ya’ll. I’m just sayin’.
Welp, toodloo. I’m off to sit in the rocking chairs and play checkers.