I met my husband in a neighborhood bar. (There, I've said it.).
Friday night, riding my Electric blue 1997 Harley Davidson Sportster Hugger 883, I'm not going to make it home to use my own powder room, An odd neighborhood enclave enroute houses a grocery, a dentist, a yarn shop, a bar, and a bowling alley with a cocktail lounge. I chose the bar, hoping they served root beer on tap. (Understand that I was clean and sober a year and a half and actually determined to stay that way.)
I park my pride and joy up on the sidewalk and under the eaves, dutifully securing my fork locks. I hitch up my black leather chaps, unsnap my leather kercheif, and unzip my classic leather biker jacket, and stride in like I own the place. I place my order, do my business, and "belly-up to the bar" as they say. Even though it's the first time I've been to this bar, and months since I've been to any bar, an acquaintance from the Christian Motorcycle Association (CMA), walks in the door. He tells me that a bunch of our friends are across the parking lot, at the cocktail lounge dancing to live music. I agree to meet them there later, after I go home and get out of my work clothes. And I do.
I have one heck of a good time dancing with this bunch of people I consider safe. I'm not looking for anybody, just an evening of dancing with reckless abandon. I dance so much that I overheat and walk out the front door to check on my motorcycle and grab some fresh air. I note a big black 1997 Harley Davidson Electri-Glide parked right next to my bike. Warning bells are going off in my brain...I haven't been out and about at night in so long and here I am getting stalked by an ex-boyfriend whom I consider to be very toxic to me. I ball up my fists and stalk back in, ready to fight for my right to be left alone to live my life. (So much for my Christian beliefs.)
I'm looking for the scoundrel and I don't find him, but I do see a new biker holding up the wall, right behind my chair and he doesn't look too bad. I approach.
Friday night, riding my Electric blue 1997 Harley Davidson Sportster Hugger 883, I'm not going to make it home to use my own powder room, An odd neighborhood enclave enroute houses a grocery, a dentist, a yarn shop, a bar, and a bowling alley with a cocktail lounge. I chose the bar, hoping they served root beer on tap. (Understand that I was clean and sober a year and a half and actually determined to stay that way.)
I park my pride and joy up on the sidewalk and under the eaves, dutifully securing my fork locks. I hitch up my black leather chaps, unsnap my leather kercheif, and unzip my classic leather biker jacket, and stride in like I own the place. I place my order, do my business, and "belly-up to the bar" as they say. Even though it's the first time I've been to this bar, and months since I've been to any bar, an acquaintance from the Christian Motorcycle Association (CMA), walks in the door. He tells me that a bunch of our friends are across the parking lot, at the cocktail lounge dancing to live music. I agree to meet them there later, after I go home and get out of my work clothes. And I do.
I have one heck of a good time dancing with this bunch of people I consider safe. I'm not looking for anybody, just an evening of dancing with reckless abandon. I dance so much that I overheat and walk out the front door to check on my motorcycle and grab some fresh air. I note a big black 1997 Harley Davidson Electri-Glide parked right next to my bike. Warning bells are going off in my brain...I haven't been out and about at night in so long and here I am getting stalked by an ex-boyfriend whom I consider to be very toxic to me. I ball up my fists and stalk back in, ready to fight for my right to be left alone to live my life. (So much for my Christian beliefs.)
I'm looking for the scoundrel and I don't find him, but I do see a new biker holding up the wall, right behind my chair and he doesn't look too bad. I approach.
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