Better Than Fine

I went to a concert alone last night.  My original intention was to attend with a friend but work responsibilities crept in, made the evening a difficult one for her.  I haphazardly threw out invites, to no avail.  I decided to go by myself, silly 8th grade don't-want-to-go-to-the-dance-without-a-date insecurities and all.

As an extrovert, I tend to be happiest in the company of friends, either of the long-established friendship variety or the nice-to-meet-ya sort.  I love people, the stories, the laughter, the inside jokes, the sharing of plates of french fries, the mutual hatred for That One Song, and the mutual love for That Other Song. But the older I get, the more I realize how capable I am of happiness outside such a throng.  The absence of friends may make me lonely for a period of time, but that period is always finite and brief.  I'm easily distracted by the joy of experiencing something new, something pretty, something soul-soothing, and the world is full of such things.

To listen to live music in the company of a friend, especially one with a like sense of what constitutes Good and Not Good music (with mild acceptance attached to deviations from those norms), is a precious thing. To have someone to smile at after a particularly rousing set or to help you pick out the flaws of an off-key songstress is a key component in establishing music-based friendships. And to find someone that doesn't require a constant discussion, someone that will just let you dance or bob your head or close your eyes, without a need to dissect the moment is equally important.  Perfect music friendships notwithstanding, in the company of a friend you're always subject to their whims, their exhaustion level, how many beers they want tonight, how desperate they are for a date, how annoyed they are by a tardy performer. Even in the best of scenarios, where you find a balance of musical personalities and like appreciation for concert-going decorum, you're still at the mercy of their happiness.  Or I am.

It's functionally impossible for me to enjoy myself if I sense that my companion is having a not-awesome time.  If they're unhappy (or if I can't tell one way or the other), I spend the evening trying to be exciting, trying to amuse them, trying to make them smile. I'm on a stage that I did not ask to be on.

Alone, I am invisible. There is no harm in my desire to move from the balcony to the floor and back again.  There is no risk in looking like a fool if I decide I want to dance. There is no barrier to conversation should I say hello to the nice-looking boy at the bar.  There are no hurdles if I tuck myself into a corner and jot a few notes for That Other Blog. I drink my Diet Coke. I chase it with a beer. I am the only one that needs to care, the only one that matters. And beneath it all is the pulse and twang of the music I came to hear.

I know that I will always prefer the company of a like-minded music buff.  I will always want to bemoan the amount of coffee ingested the next day with a friend who talked me into one more song the night before. I will always want the stories and laughter and side-by-side flailing that has blessed the majority of my concert experiences.

But on the rare occasions that I venture onto a out alone, move to the music in the company of strangers, I will be happily, unsurprisingly, better than fine.