Where I Do NOT Belong

I spent the latter part of my evening hanging out with guys who wear "urban couture" and greet each other with loud slapping handshakes that serve as a prelude to the hug and pat down. These are guys who, at the tender age of 26, use canes, have serious swagger, and names that somehow feature the letters Z, X or Q. Oh yes, there was breakdancing.

The closest I've ever gotten to hip hop is Stephen Colbert's HipHopketball, A Jazzabration.

Logic would say that I should not have been there and that, once there, I should not have stayed. I stuck out like a big, cornfed, Ginger Kid thumb. I'm not a real stranger to being out of place, but THIS, my friends, was a horse of a different color. And yet...my gut keeps telling me that this is good. It is good for me to be out of my comfort zone. It is good for me to be with people who are profoundly different from myself. It is good for me to partake in the revelry and the joyous exchange of glossy business cards and the liberal use of the word, "baby".

Baby, can I call you Bree Z?

I'd be offended if you didn't...baby.