I've been looping the Love, Simon soundtrack since it landed on Spotify however many months ago and track five's got me feeling things today.
I’d had quite a day, nay, year, and I needed to get some things out.
Bevan was off at a school board meeting but Sidney was home, stretched out on the sofa, finger-poking at some iDevice, the television set aglow in front of him.
"Will you do a thing with me?" I asked.
"Okay," he said.
So I dialed the stereo up to 68, hit play and we got to it.
We started with "Baba O'Riley" by The Who, taking things slow at first, stiff and smiling and uncertain, choosing each move with far too much care, but by the time we’d reached the bridge any order we were holding onto was lit on fire and set adrift, the music passing through our bodies like a storm, and we danced.
We danced in the living room and the dining room and the kitchen. We danced down the hallway and up the stairs. We danced through doorways and in front of windows. We danced to songs by Rex Orange County, Blink 182 and Calvin Harris. We danced by ourselves and together and with Ellie. We danced our heart rates rapid, jumping up and down, spinning sloppy circles and screaming the lyrics up at the ceiling, neither of us worrying about Jorge and Martín in the apartment below us, certain they'd understand.
We danced hard and fast, setting caution to the wind and fire to our feet. We danced into madness and joy, through heartbreak and pain. We danced for our lives, for time gone by and for the adventures that lay ahead.
We danced and we danced and we danced some more.
Finally, as the last note of "Mr. Brightside" trickled through the speakers above our heads we collapsed onto the living room rug, legs trembling, toes raw, chests heaving, rills of sweat slashing down our faces, and for a good long while we stayed that way, soaking up the silence.
I'm okay now.
I just finished Steve Kluger's Almost Like Being in Love again (I'd made it to the halfway point before I realized I'd already read it) and despite my best efforts (you know, cuz I've been the saddest piece of shit on the pile lately) the damn thing made all of my inside parts glow the whole way through.
"What do you call it when there's a smile in your stomach that starts when you wake up in the morning and doesn't go away until you're asleep?"
There was an event in my office tonight and I spent pretty much all of it moping in the back corner of the coat check room with Amy, the TaskRabbit we always hire to manage the coat check room at events in my office.
Below are five facts about TaskRabbit Amy.
- She lives in a converted church in Oakland
- Her religion is iowaska
- She explains away everything—drama, partying, sloppy make-outs with cute boys from São Paulo—with "It's why we come to the Earth."
- Once when she and her roommate were high from smoking marijuana they "invented" something called PlasticRat™ which is a Roomba that gobbles up plastic trash and turns it into plants and even though they realize fully well that it's an impossible idea to bring to life she and her roommate still sometimes pitch it to people in elevators "just in case"
- She doesn't give a single fuck
We were washing down free food truck food with free grocery store wine this evening, Amy and I, when she told me that eating meat is bad for your soul. Then she made me thank "our chicken friends" before I took a bite.
Amy also told me a story about her stint as an on-call masseuse in London which ended with "I quit because it wasn't serving my Highest Good…and also because I got arrested for giving a handjob to a police officer."
Gob bless Amy.
She saved my life today.