My Super Bowl Ring Man

I have a confession, dear sillies. It takes a lot of energy and courage to write about my love (or lack thereof) life. It's especially tricky when writing about locals. So I tend to only do this long after the fact, as with this story that's over one year old. But it's a big one, very big. I hope you enjoy.

[stolen from google images]

   Hallow's Eve threatened entry in the coming hours. I'd just been jilted (a story for another time). Following a bout of tears, I decided to venture out on my own. Damnit if I'd let a man ruin my Halloween!
   The place was packed with your standard small town, boisterous yet good natured, drunken yet "I'm just getting started" energy - taken up a notch by bloody zombies, big-bosomed nurses, stoned hippies (well that's redundant), and a costume-less but clothed me. I made it to the bar, ordered a Pepsi per my typical "wild" night out, then pressed through the crowd to stand by the dance floor. Dracula and his monstrous pals played upbeat, catchy tunes. Weird scene as expected, I told myself.

   "Do you know how to swing dance?" My face met that of a huge burly man. Actually, my face met his silver plated chest. I looked up to see a pair of friendly brown eyes beneath a two-horned Viking helmet. 
   "Um, well, not West Coast," I responded. "I can do some East Coast, but it's been a while." Viking's face constricted a bit. It seemed I'd confused him by an overload of information. Yet he held out a huge palm to take my hand.
   Next, I was slipping and sliding on the wood paneled dance-floor, laughing hysterically. Viking swung and flung me from side to side and all around. I hung tight and aimed at one goal: to not fall on my butt. Then I fell on my butt. Sh*t! Viking abruptly swooped me up and resumed slinging me around. I then realized what he meant by  "swing dancing."  Thankfully, eventually, the outrageously fun and incredibly awkward dance ended. He suggested we sit and chat.

   As I climbed onto a bar stool, Viking introduced himself. "I'm Joe, Joe Kansas," he said. Frankenstein walked by with a "Hey Joe." I'd soon learn that Viking Joe Kansas is 6 ft, 5 inches tall and weighs 300 pounds. [Mind you, that's approximately three of me.] The bartender, a Dolly Parton wannabe, glanced our way. "What can I get ya, Joe?" He told Dolly that he'd take another Corona and asked what I'd like.
   "Thank you, I'm good, still sipping my soda," I smiled. "You seem to know a lot of people here."
    "Yeah," Viking Joe Kansas said casually, "I'm kinda well known. I used to play for the NFL. And well, I actually have a Super Bowl Ring." Whoa! 
   He didn't wear the ring, he'd confess, because his fingers got too big (i.e., fat) for it. The man was clearly either a football player or a monstrous refrigerator, so I didn't doubt him. Instead, I'd enjoy flirting with him . . . to be continued.