You had me at PBJ
For the last week, I've bounced from South Carolina to Maryland to Nevada to Maryland and will now trek back to my Southern stomping grounds. I've managed to dance until my tendons hurt, live like a scavenger, save the day for a noted jazz musician, create a Jersey-centric alter ego named, "Gigi," and perhaps most impressive, fall in love. Or pre-love, if there is such a concept. My weary legs will calm down as I temporarily put my dance shoes on the shelf, and once home, I'll resume a normal meal schedule. Having done a good deed, I sashay off with my cape, and give Gigi the slip (until her anonymity is needed again). The pre-love which began with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at a dance conference in Reno? I am at a loss on how to dispose of that one. My heart feels as devoured as the sandwich, but with little chance of anything becoming of my snack-size romance, I'll likely be left hungry. Nom Nom, Sniffle Sniffle Nom.