There I was, surrounded by skinny jeans, pink stiletto heels, flat ironed hair, short jackets, Louis Vuitton sunglasses (or excellent copies) and sparkles as far as the eye could see.
I was standing on the metro platform in workout gear.
I did not fit in.
"It's Britney, Bitch!"
Those were the first words called out--it was a siren song to all of the young women standing on the platform waiting for the green line train to Gallery Place. They were on their own personal pilgrimage to see her, their true American Idol, she who never had to win a national televised competition (other than Star Search) to make it happen. Fame, fortune, fabulousness (not to mention pregnancy, divorce and destruction--but I digress).
The collective "WOOOOO" was only shortened only by the horn of the MARC train.
"Every time they turn the lights down/
Just wanna go that extra mile for you/
Public display of affection/
Feels like no one else in the room (but you)"
Their singing, or what might be construed as singing, rose above the volume of my ipod.
Don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against Britney Spears.
I can't, however, handle the giddy anticipation of girls with no singing talent as they howl their excitement down a platform. They were, in fact, quite beautiful girls to behold. But after they opened their mouths to sing? Not so much. In fact, a moaning, screeching cat just hit by a truck had more musicality.
But I held back my growing curmudgeonly ways, and forced a smile, albeit a small one, of course.
"We can get down like there's no one around
We keep on rocking, we keep on rockin'
Cameras are flashing while we're dirty dancing
They keep watching, keep watchin'
Feels like the the crowd was saying...
Gimme Gimme more
Gimme gimme more"
And yes, there was a crowd of young and old men who wanted more more more. More squealing and dancing and ass-shaking antics from 18-25 year old girls. And I don't blame them. It was certainly a show.
While I never wanted to be one of the flashy sparkling howler monkeys, I would love to be one of the quietly confident creatures who struts down the street without a care. But the heels would cause me to fall. I cannot stomp it out as they say.
I messaged the Blonde about my surroundings and of course, she had a bird's eye-view of everything. She noted the people walking, and I thought, "many of those girls want to be you, Blondie. But there's only one of you."
I should have asked her if her driver had dropped her off to meet her lesser imitator(s).
Their collective excitement powered the metro to Petworth, where I gladly jumped off.
I, I confess, did not want any more.
I had had enough.