Lincoln Calling

Dear Lincoln,
My friends invited us to go out on the town tomorrow night and, while I was excited at first, now I'm just a wreck.  See, you've gotten all cool on me and now I'm wondering just where I fit in. 

Don't get me wrong.  I was all for the urban makeover.  When you asked me for some money, I said "Yes!  Yes!  Choose me!  Choose me!"  and I happily paid that bogus "arena tax," too, even though I already helped with the bond, which really should have been enough.  And yet, not a single "thank you."  But I'm not resentful, I'm not. 

I'm just worried that you've left me behind.

So, I haven't even gone back to the Arena area since getting lost there last May.   I just keep flashing back to the 80s, when Lincoln went a little crazy . . . 

. . . you know, when they moved all those roads around Pioneers Park?  Well, 30 years later and I still can't seem to shake my old map.  To this day, my heart starts palpating when I get to that light on Highway 77, because I keep looking for that narrow, two-lane road that went past Lee's. 

Only now,  with the Arena, I have to memorize all these weird new names, too.   Canopy Street?  The Railyard?  The Cube? Are you kidding me?  How am I supposed to navigate that?!

And even if my brave, brave, slightly younger friends take us to the Haymarket tomorrow night, and I try hard to act cool, I'm still worried that everyone'll see that it's nothing but a ruse.  Kind of like how I feel when I go to Open Harvest and I think everyone can smell meat on me.  Only now, they'll smell "old" on me.  That musty, unhip, so-beyond-cool-you-probably-eat-dinner-at-5:30 scent that says "bad tipper."

(Seriously, what's wrong with an early dinner, anyway?  It's practical and the parking's better and you can always find a nice table near the Ladies Room.)

And if we do end up eating in the Haymarket area tomorrow, will I even be able to fake the menu?  The Brazilian steak on a stick?  Haute dogs?!  Sebastian's Table, whatever the hell that is?   Do you really see me faking it through a tasting menu or a cucumber-infused cocktail?  Yeah, I didn't think so.

I mean, I'm wearing a skort as I type this.

And yet, I really, really want to be your friend, new, hip Lincoln.  I want to feel like we're each other's peeps. I want to be wanted by you.

But I'm starting to think you only loved me for my money . . . Tell me I'm wrong.  Tell me there's a place for me at your table.  And, no, not that table at Applebee's.  I'm not ready to be that table.

Signed,
Your Friend,
Jane