Today I had a 5min black-don't-crack pity party for myself (I capped it at 5mins) after yet ANOTHER person checked my ID then went "Dang! I wasn't expecting that! You look good!" (Which always just makes me feel like, "Dang! What do you think I'm supposed to look like? The Cryptkeeper?!") and reminds me (often loudly, at best at a Puckish stage whisper for the whole establishment) of how old the world has decided I now am, completely without my input or consent. Next time, I'm just going to channel Nancy. Because: Nancy. Also because it was at a Nancy Wilson show I'd helped organize at the Waldorf Astoria one night about a decade ago (when I was already older than most of my day-to-day friends are today) when the late (RIP) great Geoffrey Holder stopped his stride, cupped my hand, and told me what a breathtaking vision I was in that deep joyous bass of his. I will never forget that moment, that gift given as loud as any of these ID checkers, that accompanying bellylaughlove ringing across the ballroom. I very rarely feel beautiful, according to the world's eyes, but my elders remind me to listen to them. Listen up. Lean in. They're saying: FUCK THE WORLD, DARLING, AND BE FABULOUS YOU!