The sun is out, I find myself walking up the Ave looking for fulfillment. I’ve just finished a photo shoot for an upcoming event and am feeling a little blurry. Maybe it’s because tomorrow’s my birthday, or perhaps it’s because I keep thinking about my grandpa, or maybe I am just stimulated from the afternoon. I had arrived at a dive in the U to meet the comedians who will share the stage with the freedom dancers this Thursday. Turns out they want us to do a series of photos involving a water balloon flight. None of us are prepared for a photo shoot–many of us taking a break from the usual crimping, heavy make-up, hot pant-wearing we usually do for the shows. We end up changing on the sidewalk in front of Lieta’s Suburu, her back seat filled with costumes and random exotic clothing from her stellar collection. I end up in a geometric poly-blend shift that’s both spectacular and unlike anything I own. I love it–even though I have on these ratty silver thong birkenstocks that I bought on a whim during my honeymoon five years ago. When we return to the bar one of the comedians makes a joke about how I look like I just came off of the Fremont Solstice parade–he’s totally right.

The photo shoot is, ironically, in front of the elite private school where I was a resident teacher a few years ago. We do a series of staged shots where we’re walking down the street looking attractive. I’ve taken my shoes off, despite the photographer swearing not to shoot my Birks. During the staged shots, we encounter the members of a certain improv troupe that improvises slasher flicks. We are handed the fattest, heaviest, bulbous water balloons to hold ominously over our heads–they are like breasts, both in size and shape. On the count of three we pummel one of the comedians, all cackles and shrieks as the balloons explode into pieces. One of the freedom dancers poses in an ‘escape’ shot while another comedian throws a balloon at her back–exposed by the incredible open-backed leotard she has just purchased at American Apparel. The balloon bounces off her spine and rolls down the street. This happens twice. We’re delighted that one of our own is not actually wet and make off down the street. We fake jog for a full minute, our comic enemies ‘pretend jogging’ behind us, running in place as the photographer closes in behind us. The whole thing is ridiculously fun.

It is with this energy that I find myself on the Ave. Previously I had handed back the gorgeous geometric dress to Lieta, asking her where she bought it. “LA,” she says. “I’ll be there in a month for a wedding!” I exclaim. I make a mental note to visit the dressmaker who creates these polyester masterpieces and sells them for twenty bucks a piece. I decide I need a dress for my birthday, something to ring in my thirty-first year and celebrate the final arrival of summer in Seattle. I spend two hours walking up and down looking for dresses made out of t-shirt fabric. In a rare moment of indulgence I buy not one but three dresses.