“This is not my life. These are not my cobwebs. This is not the darkness I was designed for.”
On Monday night, I went out with two friends to B Line for wine and food. I had tortilla soup and half a tuna sandwich and they were amazing. And we sat and talked and commiserated for a few hours, and then wandered downtown half-tipsy to go see the cavernous space my friend is thinking of renting to show her clothing line. And we went to Congress and got more drinks and I had the best Manhattan I've had, and we wandered into the end of a concert and stood in the back, drinks in hand, lost in the music of a band I mistakenly assumed was local. It was a guy switching between guitar and keyboard and singing with a girl on a keyboard harmonizing, her bangs long in her face, and another girl with a platinum bob on the cello, and two guys on guitars and the drummer, and almost all of them sang along with the guy in front even though they didn't have mics.
And then he said, oh so casually, I'm going to invite Ingrid Michaelson onstage for this next one*. So we slipped through the very small crowd and stood eight feet from the stage, and I hugged my glass next to my face like I do, and stood with my chest full of the music, simply happy for the first time in as many days as I can remember.
*He turned out to be her husband. His name is Greg Laswell. He was awesome and we saw him for free.