Yesterday, I left work to get my oil changed and a tire patched. There’s a place in Farragut, we handle their media, that is quite nice. I took a Western Horseman magazine to read while I waited.
It didn’t strike me as funny until I found a chair on their patio; when I crossed my legs, I noticed mud on ankles from checking the chickens earlier that morning. I was wearing wedges, black dress pants, a fancy blouse my mom bought me, a scarf from Becca, and a London Fog coat I got for $6.50. The mud had been there all day, surely. And I hadn’t even noticed – I wonder if my coworkers had. I also speculated that it was probably not the first time it had happened, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.
So I waited for my car, while playing dress up in one of the fancier towns of East Tennessee, reading about cattle ranchers in Wyoming and Oregon and Rodeo Queens in California. It’s funny that the ‘normal’ and ‘successful’ parts of my life put me in a certain character, and the muddy boots, out the back door with dogs in tow is the real me. It must be what Bruce Wayne feels like – except I have nice parents and no money, instead of nice money and no parents. Which is fine with me!
No one really bothered me while I read. After a little while, they brought my car around and I drove off, not quite into the sunset, but back to the farm where my muddy feet blend right in. I ran and hand through my hair, halfway wondering if there would be hay there.