“Sorry,” I muttered, knowing I was to blame for Austin’s second assertion of dominance in less than an hour.
“Hey…” The burly guy that had been sitting next to me shrugged his meaty shoulders, standing off to the side with his hands in his pockets. “If you got it, flaunt it.”
Those around him shifted from side to side and murmured their assent, heads bobbing.
If I got it…flaunt it?
I checked my boobs as I turned toward the bathroom. The cut of my neckline barely plunged, showing next to no cleavage. Sure, I had spaghetti straps, but so what? Last I checked, a little shoulder didn’t drive anyone crazy. My hem stopped right above my knee, very modest. It was a Mom’s night out dress if ever there was one, down to the fact that it didn’t fit exactly right. I wasn’t flaunting anything.
I was clearly missing something, but at that moment, I didn’t care what it was. I shook my head and pushed into the bathroom, taking my place behind two women in jeans and flannel.
“Excuse me.” The woman in front of me moved out of the way.
“Oh.” I pointed at the two occupied stalls. “You’re not waiting?”
“No, no. Go ahead.” She gestured me on and fell in behind me.
After a step forward, the woman at the head of the line gave me a tight smile. “Here.” She stepped out of the way as someone came out of the larger stall.
“Oops. Sorry! I didn’t mean to take so long.” A younger woman, who did have a plunging neckline and a hem that lazily tapped her very upper thighs, quickly scooted out of the way.
“No worries,” I said, admiring her sparkly sequins as I slipped past.
For the first time in…years, I actually wanted to try something like that. Something a little loud and a little look at me, world, here I am! I used to wear stuff like that all the time when I was in my twenties. After my body had morphed into a holding cell for a human and then refused to bounce back, I’d gravitated toward darker clothes and blacks for the slimming qualities. I’d started aiming for modest attire, something I thought better suited my age.
But if Niamh could walk around town braless in a white T-shirt in a rainstorm, not at all worried what people thought, why couldn’t I opt for some color? Black was great, but so was the sparkly sequin extravaganza on that woman. I’d need it a little longer because I didn’t have the presence of mind to watch myself as I bent over (I’d flash the whole world, repeatedly), but what was stopping me from going for it? People’s reactions?
An uncomfortable feeling coiled in my belly as I closed myself in the stall.
Honestly, yes, it was people’s reactions. It was the fear that I’d get condescending looks if I stepped out of my lane or shrugged off my mantle of midlife modesty. That I’d get judged or sneered at or maybe even pitied if I showed off a little cleavage, a little leg, and a lot of personality. “Look at that woman, Janice! Good Lord, she is too old for a dress like that. Poor dear is trying too hard to cling to her youth.”
Time to be brutally honest with myself. The fictional jerks I was imagining weren’t the problem. I was the only one holding me back. So people might think I was too old to have some style—so what? I didn’t give two craps what people thought about me when I dressed like some sort of swamp monster. Why should I hesitate to wear the equivalent of a sexy disco ball?
I shouldn’t, that was the bottom line. I shouldn’t let the Garys of the world push me down or treat me badly, and I shouldn’t cave to people’s expectations of women my age. Distinguished with a side of crazy fabulous, here I came!
When I worked up the confidence, that was. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all.
Finished up, I exited the stall to find the same women who’d let me in front of them. One of them, now the next in line, gave me a tight smile and passed me into the stall. The other waited for whoever was taking their time in the occupied stall.
Had they let me go first because they feared (somewhat correctly) that middle-aged women couldn’t hold their bladders? Except one of them was at least as old as I was.
Confusion growing, I washed my hands and made my way out. Gazes found me as I re-entered the pool room, which had essentially become a waiting room. Almost immediately, the gazes zipped away again.
The burly guy from the bar was leaned up against the wall on the opposite side of the opening.
“Do you know if the…Dick—the non-magical guy—left?” I whispered.