I just woke up from a nap. A NAP. I never nap. Despite its implied sleep, naps make me groggier than I was pre nap. But I’d gone to a concert last night with my daughter and son-in-law, and I stayed out until 11:30. (Note: I’m usually in bed by 9:30ish after a few hours of TV while embroidering). I only slept for four hours because my hotel room was humid, and it smelled like humid does, and the sheets were humid damp. I’d have gone home at 4 a.m., but the sun wasn’t up, and driving from Pittsburgh to home takes 75-minutes, and my eyes don’t work in the dark anymore, so I lay there in my damp bed and played solitaire on my phone and prayed there were no bed bugs.
The concert was fabulous, though, and the songs are still playing in my head. We saw the BoDeans (whose lead singer is two years older than me, so I’m sure he’s feeling some effects today, too). A former boyfriend in Minnesota introduced me to them in 1993 (and by “introduced,” I mean, we played Joe Dirt Car every time we…you know…). So I thought about him a little bit last night. Not in a “I should reach out” kind of way. God no. Some hats are best left in their boxes. But you can’t escape memories, especially the ones that music inspire, you know?
I only drank a few glasses of wine, so I wasn’t buzzed buzzed, and I didn’t dance using my feet (my upper body had a good workout though, with the clapping and all), but I had a seriously good time. After all that’s happened this summer, given my partner’s open-heart surgery, I needed one.
I’ll be 63 on Friday, and I’m feeling every bit of it today. But I’m glad to know that, in my mind, I can still party like it’s 1999.
Lynn Haraldson, Author and Writing Mentor 