Enthusiasm

The woman in front of us at the concert is… a lot. A leopard print tube top and a black mini skirt, and when she asks, rhetorically, after stepping on toes getting in and out of her row, “Who raised me?” we sort of think the answer might be, “No one.”

But as the concert goes on, and she is singing every song to her slightly less enthusiastic boyfriend, dancing like no one is watching, and almost collapsing with ecstasy every time the artist plays a song she likes, she’s starting kind of grow on me.She is having the best time,  she’s not hurting anyone, and her boyfriend seems to really like her, so who am I to yuck their yum?