tuscaloosa > personals > missed connections


Roll - Bryant-Denny Stadium m4w

Date: 2010-07-28, 10:40PM CST

Darling, in a sea full of crimson, you were the most crimson. Of course, you were not wearing crimson--silly you, you know how this place works, don't you?--nor were you wearing an off-color crimson: the color of those five dollar t-shirts for easy purchase outside of the stadium, the color of a misguided new inhabitant to Tuscaloosa who purchased a red 'A' shirt at TJ Maxx or some off brand discount store not knowing that it was the fine serifed A of the Arkansas Razorbacks, the color of an Alabama jersey purchased at Wal-Mart, with the silver block numbers and the letters 'A...L...A'--you know the rest, of course you know the rest because you did not wear this color, this terrible sanguinesque rouge, this misguided guidance. No, you had the air of something different, something majestic--a black and white checkered houndstooth: alternating bands of four black and four white threads in both warp and filling or weft woven in a simple 2:2 twill, two over - two under the warp, advancing one thread each pass. This houndstooth might be the mark of Bryant, but you wore it with the style of McQueen alluding to a young Gaga, before her nosejob, before golden crutches, before even the two Great Danes became the two Great Danes, before, before, before all of that. Your hair, yes, was blonde, conditioned, certainly: Pantene Pro-V, perhaps, yet I doubt it--yours is the hair of a color specific conditioning routine--perhaps purchased at one of Tuscaloosa's fine salons, maybe, possibly, perhaps--though you have the style of someone who frequents the most bourgeois boutiques in Birmingham: an appointment at Aveda once every week and a half, a woman with black cat-like eyeliner like a pornstar or a US Women's National Team Softball player knows your name there (what is your name? Is it Julie? Amber? Juliamber?) and knows how you like your makeup--different than hers, more foundation, less eyeliner: hers, a desire to look younger, yours, a desire to look older, more sophisticated, more you. Your date, a childish looking lad with the beginnings of a beard and the hair of a Lego-person, was wearing a pair of loose fitting khakis and boat shoes--he considered this dressing up, didn't he?--complete with an oversized navy blazer that made him look like a Republican David Byrne: an ill-fitting suit reserved only for street preachers or level bosses in the 1989 arcade game Final Fight. He kept taking sneaky looks at your GameDay cleavage under the guise that he was having a lot of difficulty reading your round white sticker on your Vera Bradley'd shoulder: 'Who loves the Tide again? Oh yes, now I remember.' in between sips of his whiskey-laced Coca-Cola--oddly preferring previous seasons where Pepsi was the official drink sponsor inside of Crimson Tide Athletic events--a certain sign of his 'his-ness': treacherous misguided and clueless, not understanding when you referred to the little bottles of distilled liquor as 'airplane bottles' because he has never been on an airplane, has not seen New York, London, Paris, Madrid like you certainly have. When you shook your shaker, you shook everyone around you--their self-worth rattled: all inside the stadium uncertain of what has led them to this point, yet certain in their conviction: in following you, your cheers. Their hopes and dreams became their hopes and dreams: they forgot about their hunger for sub-par stadium barbecue nachos, they forgot about other scores from around the SEC, they forgot about everything except what you wish, once wished, and will wish.

PostingID: 1928393839

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