Damn, and I've still got my prom dress

I knew it was gonna be a strange day when I woke up this morning feeling springy, cheerful, and talkative. This is either a harbinger of the apocalypse, or the little grey men have surreptitiously replaced me with Alien Katy. Those who know me are well aware of the fact that I'm not available for conversation for at least a half an hour after I force myself out of the surrogate womb that is my waterbed. I got nothin' to say, and I don't feel like processing any conversation beyond "Dog been out?" So for me to bound out of bed with the enthusiasm of a tequila-soaked cheerleader is a rare event which should be noted on the calendar in red, and may be cause for a national holiday next year. And this wasn't a case of morning-after-the-epic-shtup giggles, either, 'cause I was givin' Mr. Caught-a-Cold plenty of space last night.

After my glorious, nauseatingly bubbly awakening, the day seemed like it would continue without further incidents of note. I busied myself with a computer-bound combination of actual work and actual farting around and reading lots of other people's blogs (though I made myself promise not to get sucked into the vortex that is Dooce's comment section, just for today). I was finding a pretty waste-heavy ratio of work to time wasting, and in the midst of my glorious electronic thumb twiddling the phone rang.

It was Squirl. "Have you checked your email?"

I hadn't. I set the phone down to go log into my work email. She's provided me with a link, which I followed. I came back in and got back on the phone. "I wish I had a cordless," I remarked. She offered to call me back on my cell, because she really wanted to be on the line with me when I saw what she'd found.

Okay, cell call goin', let's see what we've got. It was a link to the PDF newsletter for a gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgendered organization, and she told me to go to page three. So I paged down, and paged down...

...and l was greeted by the soulful eyes of my high school boyfriend. I haven't seen him in 20 years, but there was no mistake, especially since his full name was printed under the photo. He appears to be pretty "out" but since I haven't asked his permission, I won't use his real name here (you know, in case he doesn't want his friends knowin' he took a skank like me to prom), and we'll just call him Rico.

So, Rico seems to be pretty involved in glbt issues and politics, and is pretty ensconced in the leather-and-levis scene. I even found a way-cool picture of him in his leather (no, Rico, not stalkin' you , but you know I had to look!). I came here intending to say something cheeky (no pun intended; well, yes it was) about my streak with ex-boyfriends (y'all don't know the half of the weird shit).

But you know what? I look at these recent pictures of Rico, and I see something in his expression that was never there when I knew him. He has a contentment about him, like he's found where he's supposed to be, and he's deep-down comfortable. And I find myself not able to write anything snappy or cute about it, because I find myself happy as hell for him.

But Rico? You and I are gonna need to have a little talk about how you look better in them skin-tight leather pants than I do. Not fair, not fair for a minute.