It was a picture-perfect summer day. I was cruising with the windows down, radiating the kind of unearned confidence that only happens when you’re alone in your own mobile concert hall.

I felt free, alive, and utterly unstoppable.

Until I hit a red light.

The bass dropped, and Missy Elliott’s “This Is for My People” launched its frantic, rhythmic assault. I didn’t just listen to the music, I became it. Aggressive shoulder rolls, interpretive hand gestures that probably signaled a distress flare, and hair whipping around like I was possessed by a disco demon.

Then the light turned green.

I glanced left and froze.

An elderly gentleman in the white sedan beside me stared back, mouth agape, eyes wide, as if he were witnessing a medical emergency. It wasn’t admiration. It was pure, unadulterated trauma.

I pulled away laughing until I couldn’t breathe.

Sorry, sir. I promise I’m mostly a functioning member of society.

You just caught me on a very, very “Missy” day.

© 2026 Addie DeRose