talking+listening.

I was going to post something I wrote earlier, while sitting on a huge rock in Central Park, but I don’t think it is the time for that kind of a post. You know, the things that one writes while perched on huge rocks are only appropriate for certain times.

Not to say that what I wrote was, like, inappropriate or anything.

Instead, I will say that I was part of an impromptu and quite hilarious lonely hearts Hemingway-esque club in the West Village tonight. I had googled open mics with pianos in the city because I felt like singing something, and so, after my capoeira and yoga classes, I set out for the Duplex.

I sat by myself for a while. In a bar. I kept thinking, Is this weird? And then I’d be like, Yes, but just because everything is a little weird. But it really wasn’t bad-weird at all. Just different. There was this amazing pianist playing pop-rock and a few showtunes and then he was all, “If anyone wants to come sing something, come on up.” So it took me like 30 minutes to work up the nerve to write my name and the title of the song on a napkin and lay it on his piano. Seriously. I sat there holding the darn thing long enough for him to go through Elton John, the Beatles, George Michael, and even Alanis Morisette before I finally made the request.

And then I went and sang. And it was so much fun. Everyone was super nice and blah blah blah then I went and sat back down. There were two guys to my right and one lady to my left and the guys were telling me nice things about the song I just performed and were finally like, “Are you here alone?!”

I said yes.

“Come on over here!”

And that was that; we were a table of three. Until we invited the lady who had previously been to my left. And then we were four. The one guy was nursing a broken heart, his boyfriend of four years having just dumped him out of the blue. He told me his story and I grabbed his hand. It felt right. Grabbing his hand, I mean. The story didn’t feel right; it felt sad. Then they asked me my story.

“You really wanna hear it?” I asked.

They said yes.

So, bam. I told them everything. Well, the cliff’s notes version, anyway. They said that it was very effed up. Only they didn’t exactly say effed. They said a lot of things and then bought me a drink.

“Don’t worry,” the one guy told me quite seriously. “With a voice like yours, you’ll have no problem finding another guy.”

Interesting theory. I think it’s bogus. I’ve had the same voice the whole time and, look, I was smack in the middle of an effed up situation, to quote those guys. And it’s not like I’m a siren, singing from an island in hopes to attract sailors passing by in their skiffs. Skiffs? Yeah, I think that’s right. And I think the sirens end up killing the sailors, too. Definitely not my plan. I know that guy was just being nice, and I appreciate it, but my point is that no voice or face or body or ability to speak in three thousand different languages and cook a mean meatloaf is ever gonna guarantee you of one thing. Other than maybe meatloaf for dinner.

And that’s okay; there’s a certain freedom that comes from the realization of that truth, I think. We don’t need to try so hard to hold on to those things, after all; we can let go and busy our hearts with the moment and the tasks that God has given us now. Rather than running ourselves ragged cause we’re trying our best to keep something that isn’t even ours.

But you know what is gonna guarantee you not getting a boyfriend?

Hanging out at a gay bar, listening to showtunes and other such fantastic songs.

Which is totally fine, by the way.

But it will guarantee you meeting some fantastic people, laughing with them, and the chance to listen to their stories. That’s a beautiful part of life and I am grateful for the opportunity whenever it comes along.