Anyway.

Today was an interesting, sunny day.

Lots of people out and about.

I mean, it is New York City. The place is jam-packed with people. That’s partly why I love it. Humans are fascinating, I think. Never boring. Especially not today.

First, there is the guy outside Penn Station. He comes out of nowhere and envelopes me in a huge hug. My sense of boundaries are pushed and prodded with that one, I have to admit. But he is nice enough. Says something about my smile and the angels. But then he mentions football, so I am confused. Maybe he is still high on the super bowl win or something, I don’t know.

Then, there is the guy in midtown, on seventh avenue. Looks to be somewhere in his fifties. A business man, dressed up and stuff.

He slowly walks up to me. “You are so exotic,” he tells me, making this Pennsylvania born and bred girl laugh a little. “I just love your sense of style, too,” he mentions, and I thank him. “You’re from here?” he asks, and I nod my head, not wanting to delve into where I’m from with him, so here suits me just fine. Sure, I’m from seventh avenue today. 

“Well,” he continues, “You probably want some young guy–with muscles and all that–but that’s overrated.”

I just listen.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asks, before saying, “If I give you my number and promise you that I will be the best white b*tch you’ve ever had, will you call me?”

Is this happening? I wonder and then realize he’s actually waiting for an answer.

Waiting for me to either accept or refute his offer to be the BEST WHITE B*TCH I’VE EVER HAD. I am not sure there’s any competition; I am not sure, in fact, that I’ve ever even had one, to be honest.

I quickly mumble something about how my *boyfriend* would not like that.

The guy leans in and lowers his voice, “But he wouldn’t have to know,” he tells me, like we two could share the best secret known to man.

Oh, what fun.

“That wouldn’t work for me,” I tell him. “I’m honest.”

He looks disappointed and starts to walk away, but before he does, he asks, “Your boyfriend–how old is he?

“Twenty-seven,” I say, pulling a number out of the air.

He shakes his head. “You shoulda been with a twenty-seven year old when you were in high school,” he mutters as he makes his exit.

I don’t think my parents would agree with that sentiment.

And that might have been the weirdest exchange I’ve had with a stranger to date. Or at least, it’s in the top three, I’d say.

Gosh, best white b*tch I’ve ever had. 

And I walked away, folks; just walked away.

THANK GOD.

Oh, it’s terrible English, I know–and I cannot remember where I first heard this phrase–but it keeps running through my mind tonight. I have this sense of contentment, of wellness, that feels even bigger than my body, if that makes sense. Like my fingers only go so far when I reach; but, oh! this feeling of peace, it extends. Further than I knew, maybe.

And I feel, well, all full up.

Like the holes that have been poked through my psyche and my heart and my mind have started to patch. And you know what? I’ve always really liked patches. One of my favorite parts of flying in an airplane is looking down and seeing the land assembled like a patchwork quilt.

Which is something else I love. I’ve always wanted to make one, actually. And I’m gonna do it someday, too. And then I’m gonna give it to a really special person. You’ll see.

But maybe it was the shooting star I saw, falling like a thread of silver through the black sky; or the very short run I made with my dog in the kind of night that is so dark, it forbids you from seeing your own hand in front of your face; or the honest and free laughter that I shared with my parents (some laughter isn’t free; unkind laughter takes from you, leaves you in a debt that is hard to pay back); or talking to some friends late tonight in a house made warm by a yellow fire and happy by music; or the choreography I taught to a friend who loves to dance, sees it as a kind gift from an even kinder Creator; or maybe I could cite every last good thing I can remember and still not quite define what has me all full up tonight.

Maybe it’s like stripping the rose of every last petal in an effort to find what makes it smell so lovely–this peace, this life, this love–it’s big. Bigger than me. Bigger than one day or night. And I am happy, so happy to be included in it. I feel like traces of the song God first sung to cause everything in this old world to grow and breathe and bloom and be can be heard tonight.

And it has me all full up.

I have to say she was worth everything it took to go see her. Not that it was a lot on my part, per se. Especially when compared to the times you hear about people doing some street side vigils to get tickets. Or staying on the phone for hours. Or paying a lot more than $27.

But still, it was worth getting bumped into over and over again by the guy to my right who might have been five feet on a good day. Not that I hold anyone’s height (or lack thereof) against them. I mean, my own dear momma is not that tall, let’s face it. But she doesn’t spend all night long making loud announcements and then laughing hysterically at herself before she’s even finished the sentence. And this, in addition to all the hapless bumping into me.

And oh, here’s a tip: if you are the only one laughing at what you just said then there is a very strong possibility that you are just. not. funny.

Or that you are high.

Which was why I was not so sad when me and this continual jokester-complete-with-his-own-laugh-track ended up not standing next to each other by the time Ingrid Michaelson came out on stage. I can only say that I hope whoever eventually did stand next to him appreciated his jokes as much as I had.

But back to Ingrid, because she was great.

And really funny.

And didn’t bump into me once.

Proving that those two things can be done, small man who was maybe definitely high, I hope you’re listening.

And it’s a rare treat when you get to hear an artist who sounds better live than she does on her recordings. And it’s not like she sounds shabby on the recordings, either.

But she has a special place in my heart. I started listening to her while I was in Japan. A dear friend, Mindy, introduced me to her one day while we were both laying on the dressing room floor, wishing that we didn’t have another show to do in just an hour. She asked me if I wanted to hear the beautiful song she was listening to and I’m pretty sure I’m never gonna say no to a question like that.

So she gave me one half of her headphones and we lay there together, listening to Ingrid sing The Chain, which became one of my favorite songs ever.

And I’ve about worn that song out since. I will say that Japan was when I started noticing that my life as I knew it was unraveling. And by noticing, I mean desperately trying to get the attention of someone you love and feeling like you suddenly just have a crush on the man who married you and he doesn’t even remember your name. And as somebody on the other side of the world kept pulling and pulling at the thread, ripping it out until there was barely any fabric to cover us at all anymore, I would write pitiful love songs on my guitar or listen to Ingrid Michaelson sing about how everybody, everybody wants to love, everybody everybody wants to be loved and I would silently agree cause yeah, that’s all I wanted. Is that such a terrible thing, anyway?

And then I came home and that thread was even shorter. Shorter than I ever knew it could be. And there we were, our relationship exposed and uglier than I ever knew it could be, either; cause that poor thread had been pulled and pulled until the fabric was gone entirely, having been used to make a different blanket for a different person. And there I was, feeling naked and ashamed and less than while not knowing what to do about it except write and listen to music. Oh, and pretend to the world that everything was good enough.

Which is when I wrote this.

It was a time when he was upset with me and had left abruptly. Again. And I didn’t know the half of it. And I couldn’t compete with a person I didn’t even know had taken my place. All I knew to be was myself and suddenly that wasn’t good enough.

But I’d once again find some small comfort in listening to the song, The Chain. And it’s one of those songs that makes me really happy and really sad at once; really happy that it was written at all and really sad that it wasn’t me who had written it in the first place.

And even though Ingrid didn’t sing The Chain tonight, I still absolutely loved getting to hear her live. She was inspiring. Plus, she plays a very small guitar. Something that I do too, so it gave me a little more courage in that direction. A little less reason to feel very defensive when people ask me about it. Over and over again.

But yes, listening to her was pretty darn great. Like I said, worth every bit of the $27 and all that jazz.