Maybe I Need to Comb My Hair More Often

Some guy mistook me for a beggar tonight and tried to offer me money.

He and his girlfriend ran after me, stopped me before I got in my car, asked me, "What do you need, money?" and I think they were trying to hand me a $20. I was really confused. I didn't understand what they were asking at first, why he was waving a fistful of dollar at me, had I dropped it and he was trying to return it or what? Then he asked me how old Ravenna was. "11 months," I said. He told me that she is a beautiful baby boy. Almost at the same time his girlfriend apologized to me and, apologizing profusely still, they slunk away. It wasn't until then that I realized what had been going on, that they had thought I was in need and were trying to be good samaritans, that they had been trying to give me the money he had been waving on.

Prior to this encounter I had been at a tango gathering at a friend's loft in Pioneer Square. If you're not in the know about Seattle, Pioneer Square is a hip corner downtown filled with bars and clubs and an active nightlife. Post gathering, maybe 12:30 in the morning, I was walking to my car with one bag over my shoulder, a backpack on my back, carrying Ravenna wrapped in her blanket.

I wasn't dressed to the nines like so many of the clubbing women out on the street, but I wasn't dresed poorly. Dressy top, flowing pants, flip-flops. My hair was groomed and I was wearing some jewelry I find aesthetically pleasing.

So what was it? Was it the baby?

Was it the way I was dressed?

My demeanor?

It was all so surreal.