I’ve been keeping a written journal of college/high school/childhood memory blurbs, and this morning I thought it might be fun to occasionally share some of those entries over here. (To the people in my past who are now nervous: I’ll be using gender specific pronouns, but never names.) Let me know if you like these or don’t like these and I’ll probably keep putting them up anyway because this is MY house.
It was hot and it was humid but most importantly, it was dark. We were walking from a friend’s house back to my dormitory when she suggested that we take off our shirts and walk the remaining few blocks in just our bras and jeans. The streetlights were fairly dim and we hadn’t seen a car in several minutes, so off went the shirts. Less than five minutes later, a car pulled up and stopped when it reached us. It was a carload of friends from the band and we carried on a ten minute conversation during which no one mentioned that we were walking the streets with our shirts in our hands.
6 thoughts on “Not a Memoir”
Is that all for tonight.
It’s like one of those “I dreamed I was in my underwear” dreams without the sudden realization and mortification!
I love this so much.
Ever? They never mentioned it – ever?
I am so grateful that smart phones &/or the internet did not exist in the 80’s.
Wahhhh. In a dream world that would have been a cop car and you’d have been busted for something like indecent exposure, or streetwalking. Can’t decide whether I’m disappointed, or thrilled by this one. Keep ’em coming!
I love this. The story and that you’re telling it.
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