My belly dance class this session is in Minneapolis, in the Lowry Hill neighborhood. By the time class gets out, it’s somewhat late. Bars are open and some people have polished off more than a couple. While waiting at my bus stop to go back home to the suburbs, I’m almost sure to see someone interesting… or they’ll see me.

It’s hard to describe the guy who decided I’d be his entertainment for a few minutes last night. It’s possible he was homeless, but it’s also possible that he just didn’t prefer bathing. I didn’t bother to ask. He stopped me and asked if I was an ex-service person, probably because I was half-practicing the choreography I’d just learned at class and under my heavy coat it may have looked like I was doing some kind of drill. Of course, I made the mistake of answering and being cordial, so he decided we should chat until my bus came. There were other people at the bus stop though, and the intersection is pretty well lit, so whatever. I didn’t mind listening to him babble a bit.

The thing was, after a while, he wanted to know my story. I didn’t have an answer for him. I could tell him what I do for a living, and what I spend time on, but I couldn’t tell him “who” I am, other than to say that I’m a daughter, sister, and wife. Now, I know who I am, but I can never seem to put it into words that sound the way I want them to. *shrug* Anyway, it was an interesting experience and it certainly got me thinking. Maybe someday I’ll find the words.