Luby's

You know how sometimes you shame-eat Luby’s then do a juice fast? That’s basically my life for the last year. Let me explain.


We all hate things we can’t change, even if only temporarily. I’m given a set number of days here with y’all, and I spent some of those entire Spirit-given days in a full-on snot cry over essentially not being able to open a lock box. It’s the same if I went into the Smithsonian as a grown ass woman and wept over the relics held behind bulletproof glass. And not even the sacred ones that would normally bring people to tears. I’m talking about me in jammies sobbing over the tiny plaque that describes the antiquity. Can you imagine? 


“Ma’am are you okay?”


“It’s just this plaque...the words. We can’t change them. Isn’t that sad?”


They’d escort me right the hell on out. 


Last week, maybe as a result of the impending new year, maybe because it was just my time, I put down my Luanne platter and told myself I would choose to be happy. I have to be very intentional about it because the record in my head always plays a sad song. It’s very easy to listen to. This morning, the little song played again and I was having trouble smashing the record player. A friend who helped me birth another human into the world said, “Susan, you’re not choosing joy. You ARE joy.” And she’s right, dammit. 


I said to myself: 


That hurt. That was a bad way to live. I don’t ever have to cry over that again. And today I can plug in my curling iron and take myself to see Darkest Hour like a Beyoncé-inspired lioness with cellulite doing perfect yoga on a beach in fucking Maui, man. 


Luby’s Cafeteria isn’t a metaphor for hell. It’s a place both good people and racist old white people go to feel safe and secure. Remember to take a friend when you go. And I do have so many friends. The lock box can stay locked and the Smithsonian can keep its tissues and armed escorts. I’ll be at the movies if anybody needs me.