So last night, Veronica and I went to Tir Na Nog. She bought me a Highland Gaelic, to celebrate crossing the halfway point of my intern hours. I bought her a Guinness, to celebrate her completion of a long and laborious night class, on which I bailed as soon as I got hopelessly behind. It was a good time.
We were both a beer and a half in, and had just finished enjoying the Ethnographers; both of us ranked it as one of our Local Band/Local Beer favorites so far. We were also enjoying I Was Totally Destroying It, and in fact had chosen Tir Na Nog as our evening’s destination solely because we wanted to see what kind of band matched that fabulous name.
Veronica excused herself for a phone call, and I was leaning on the wall enjoying the show. Within about a minute, a tall gentleman leaned into my field of vision and murmured, “From a distance, you look like the picture of melancholy. But I think it might just be the song.” I laughed and said, “It’s just the song.” And he evaporated just as Veronica reappeared. “There is nothing more fun than coming back from the rest room and seeing your friend getting hit on,” she told me. “That was not getting hit on,” I said. “That was the universe, twice in one week, telling me that apparently I am still projecting emotions which I do not feel.” This seems like an appropriate place for a “WTF.” Because, again, I was feeling fine, feeling like I might survive architecture interning, looking forward to the weekend, looking forward to the holiday. I was in a good mood, damn it. I was Lost In Song.
No worries. Good mood persists. Thank you, Universe, I got the message. And the other message. And whatever message is next. I will work on it. I will practice looking positive and optimistic, even when a sad song is playing and my friend has gone to answer a phone call. I appreciate your cosmic concern, and your interest in my minor problems. And as long as your benevolent gaze is turned in my direction, Universe, might I put in a request for a few additional items? A shoebox full of hundred-dollar bills, and a vintage Airstream, and a handsome hipster cowboy who will play guitar for me under the awning as I write the next Great American Novel down by the river?
Thanks for your kind attention.