Last night we were on a rare public outing, due to our temporary but severe cash constraints, at Margarita’s, a local Tex-Mex restaurant (pretty good fajitas and salsa) in the “Arts District.”

Portland city planners and citizens think having a couple of galleries, a museum, and Art School qualifies for saying one has an art district. At Margaritas, at the wrong one as we found out later, we were waiting to meet Maureen’s director to discuss production and watch a rehearsal.

While Maureen sipped her strawberry-raspberry margarita working herself towards a brain freeze and continuously scanning the local patronage for a bearded, rumpled man that could pass as a college professor (the director’s self-description),  I casually leaned at the bar, nursing a coke (Oh, did I wish it were a good whiskey), watching local Portland Gals.

Table 1
A birthday bash with 5 gals and 1 mom, where margaritas were being tossed like there is no tomorrow.

Table 2
Four gals, who each nursed one margarita for the hour we waited.

I noticed that Portland gals have their hands tucked between their thighs or neatly folded on their lap.

What’s up with this?  

Prim and proper, or just cold hands?

I think its more than just cold hands.

It’s a body language sign that Portland gals are saying

I am quiet
I am slim and slender.
I don’t want to take up a lot of space.
I'm afraid to let it all out.

Now Jersey gals, my friend Maggie’s people, on the other hand,  move their hands voraciously, just as the Russian gals do when not holding a candle or vodka glass.  


Let it out, Portland gals. Let it out.