Thirty Days Of Julia: Day Twenty-Two

She called me Beanpole. A fashion victim
in skintight stretch jeans and a tourniquet
leather tie. It was a wonder my head
didn't pop with all the blood being squeezed
upwards. Ribs like a toast rack, buttoned down
beneath tweed. Patched elbows like an old school-
teacher. If I could invent time travel,
I would go back to kick my own arse. Hard.
To prevent myself from disappearing
up it. To cut in for a gentleman's
excuse me. Chance to dance with a lady
rather than wilt with the wallflowers. What
would I have done differently had I known
there were only nine days left? Counted down?