My bindi got me in trouble on Sunday. Thing is, I'd never wear a bindi to yoga class or to Dr. S' office. But I did feel safe sporting a purple one with a golden flower, i.e. a "special occasion" one, to the little Sunday afternoon get-together at my goddess friend's lovely home. Problem was I needed Chambord for Champagne cocktails, and when we finally found the only decent liquor store in what seems like all of ole Eagle Rock, the person behind the counter just had to be Indian. Of course, he addressed my third eye only, with a forehead wrinkled in disdain (his, not mine) while convulsing the lower left corner of his lip in an ever so faint amused tremble. The agony! I just wanted to tear it off, run out and yell, fine, I'm an imposter. Obviously, I'm no Hindu princess. I'm German for chrissake. But I just paid for my limited deluxe gift edition of Chambord and left with my tail between my legs. Meow.
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