Friday night, a girl put two fingers in my face and said “F— you.” Why? Because someone had “stolen” her coat at a party I was co-hosting.
The coat was found, she went home, and I was left pondering this entire situation on Sunday morning as I tried to edit my new book.
My response at the time had been something about “get out of my face,” but wow. I wondered what “Emily” would have said in my shoes?
“First of all,” Emily would say to me, “I’m wearing boots, not shoes. Second of all, Laura Anne, we all know the only response in that situation. Classy women use their middle fingers for jewelry.”
I’m not Emily, am I? I’m the part of Emily that is a basket case and can’t pull it together. I lost that thing she only temporarily replaced: Texas sass. I don’t ask “yuh-on-to” or say “pert-near” because I’ve just lost my Texas.
When I was 16, Mandy Mudge and I dressed at beatniks for Halloween at ESD and I bought my first pair of cowboy boots (terribly beatnik, I know…bear with me). The soles have been redone 4 times because I used to wear them ALL THE TIME. Just before I came back to Zürich, my aunt bought me my second pair of cowboy boots on South Congress in Austin. Both pair are in my closet right now, just a few feet away.
I am a 6th generation Texan and I am going to wear those boots in the next few weeks to remind me of that. I’m gonna defend myself from these nut jobs around me that are ridiculous. Less crying and more butt-kickin’ because I am a 6th generation Texan, God bless me.
And God bless “Emily.”