Okay, I’m not in Nashville for Halloween, but I somehow had to fit in our college visiting trip story from a few weeks ago. It’s a real treat.

So where were we? I had my last infusion, rang the bell, and went to Nashville the following week. Not that I have to stick with the chronological facts, but I have so much to tell you, and I’m behind. And it’s Halloween already.

So we’ll pretend here–it’s like we’re treating Honky Tonk style.

It was even more special because it was our first trip on an airplane as a family since last winter. A bit delayed because we had quite a bit going on in the summer, so no time to travel then.

And just because I’m ready to travel again doesn’t mean my life’s in order in any other way. I’m still not looking (or acting) so typical.

Take a day in my life at the supermarket. I decided I didn’t need a basket because I was only getting three things. Alex would have only bought three things, but it’s me we’re talking about. I’m back! I never buy what’s on my list. (Rarely do I stick to my list at all, but I find lots of other miscellaneous add ons).

So I needed that basket after all.

But I was too lazy, and I creatively balanced my food on my fake breasts. Just when you thought you’d get a story that has nothing to do with my breasts.

Of course, I underestimated the pile I had going and dropped two items while reaching for another on the shelf.

This man ran over to me, picked up the items, and said, “Here you go. Now get back to work.”

Yes, I was mistaken for a shelf stocker, which wouldn’t have been so bad if I was doing my job correctly.

But this was my first flight in a long time, mind you, since Covid and cancer hit. So I was about to go through security–you know, that scary security machine where you put your hands in the air as a criminal getting patted down with those robotic eyes that can see through your clothes, and to my embarrassment, my fake breasts.

You know, the ones with silicone in them. You know the rule. No liquids. I had just emptied my pockets. Would they mistake my breasts as weapons?

Well, I did what anyone would have done in such a situation. I panicked. I stopped just short of the x-ray machine and asked the guard who was ushering me forth. “Wait a minute. Can my silicone breasts go in there?”

I hadn’t gotten clearance from my doctor; I mean, I have a card that says I have them. Maybe that was important in airports. It’s not like I had time to ask a question on the patient portal. Can I go through security? And expect an answer.

They had been asking us to empty our pockets. Suppose they could see through to my silicone, and it set off some national security alarm or something?

He looked at me like that guy in the supermarket right before he told me to get back to work. “Of course, you can go in there.”

So I went in there, but I reluctantly put my arms in the air and secretly knew my silicone was lighting up on some monitor somewhere when the other attendant said, “Ma’am, could you please step out. Come over to me, put your arms to the side.”

I knew it. I had it coming–the humiliating pat-down. But I was grateful for my small breasts. If I had gone any larger, there would have been a more severe pat-down.

And that brings me to all things small. Remember A Persona’s A Person No Matter How Small? Well, I wrote that while on the cramped flight to Nashville, I again appreciated my choice of small breasts–bigger ones wouldn’t even fit in the seat.

But we got to the Honky Tonk city, and finally, I found a place where, big or small, there’s hope for people like me.

Here are the top 5 reasons why in Nashville it’s always Halloween and anything goes:

1. We couldn’t get his picture because he sped off when the light turned green, but we passed a bad-ass cowboy driving a pink jeep. I called him pinky cowboy.
2. We drove by a one-person scooter that two boys were trying to ride in tandem. It was so comical we had to take a video of it.
3. The guy was crossing the street, and he was so drunk he couldn’t pick up his moving phone. (Of course, the phone wasn’t moving, silly).
4. There’s no politically correct way you have to be. You cannot offend anyone if you use the word Honky Tonk and redneck, or even dress as such, as long as you’re downtown on the main strip.
5. Despite “LOOK Make Eye Contact Before Crossing” street signs on every corner, no one looks up from their cell phones, except the guy who dropped his, the other drunks, and of course, the partiers on the bachelorette buses. And no one cards you for carrying fake boobs.

But we weren’t going to Nashville to celebrate Halloween. We were going to look at schools. Remember? Of course, you do. But I seemed to have forgotten.

Alex told us we’d be eating at a well-known restaurant called Honky Tonk. So that’s what was in my head. I told our very refined tour guide that’s where we had plans to eat.

She said, “Honky Tonk. Really? I never heard of it.” I said, “You must have; it’s pretty well known and got excellent ratings.”

She said, “Well, I do know it’s an expression, but I don’t know what it means.”

I was beyond shocked, almost offended, that she didn’t know what honky-tonk meant. Come to think of it, neither did I.

So I said the first thing that popped into my head, “Redneck, right?”

She looked at me, oh no, it was the same disappointment that man had when I dropped the items off the shelf, and said, “I think it’s supposed to be an establishment.”

And I had to press on because I had redneck in my head, “Oh, like a bar where rednecks go. You know, with the mechanical bull and peanuts on the floor.”

My daughter couldn’t get away from her fast enough to say, “In a school where the first slide they show is about the inclusivity, diversity, and equality policy, you have to use the word redneck.”

Look. Don’t let the mother’s sins get in the way–just blame it on my chemo brain or fake breasts or something. I can’t help it that the only thing I can remember is the word redneck.

Though Nashvillagers (why isn’t that a thing) are proud of the title last time, I checked. Don’t let my lack of class fool you. I fit right in with the rest of Nashville.

But I might not be asked back on any future college visits. I did it again when we passed another person on their phone who wouldn’t look up and say hi to me. So I pointed out the street sign that should have clued people in to be more friendly with their hellos: “Look Make Eye Contact Before Crossing.”

Aha!

I stumbled on my new purpose in life. I call it the hello project. I’m going to do a nationwide school survey to rank schools on who will look up from their cell phones to make eye contact and say hi to me.

My daughters thought I was crazy when I passed someone else on their phone who wouldn’t say hi to me, and I said, “isn’t this supposed to be the friendliest school? isn’t that what you told me?” She corrected me, “Happiest, not friendliest. There’s a difference.”

So I said, “No one’s saying hi to me. That doesn’t make them very friendly.” But then we saw the busload of “Aquaholics,” and they disproved my point with their shouts and waves.

I meant it on my last day of chemo when I said, “I don’t know what I’ll do when I don’t have to come here anymore.”

The nurse said, “You’ll figure it out.”

So I came back from Nashville with a few good stories, a hello project in my back pocket, and a honky-tonk treat for you, and I didn’t even need a basket.