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.

Before You Were Born

This last month has not been my favorite.  I'd say, actually, that since the end of October I've been certifiably bummed out, low, exhausted. I'm not one to mope for extended periods of time, so I haven't been curled up in bed reading Anna Karenina or anything that dour.  But my generally incessant optimism has been a bit clouded of late, a bit less blind, a bit less sunny.

That this mood coincided with my birthday is, at first blush, unfortunate.  Nobody would want to greet the new year with a grey haze on the horizon. But I can recognize now, the day after my 32nd birthday, how much easier it is to overcome a season of disappointment when surrounded by every evidence of love.

In January I made a quasi-crazy decision to run at least a half-marathon every month of 2012. I signed up for races, most of the 13.1 mile variety but a few of greater distance, and found myself lacking in only one month, the month of my birth.  November/December are not prime half-marathon season up North. I took this as a divine sign that I needed to fly to  New Orleans in December for a half-marathon but that still left November race-less.

My dad gave me the idea of crafting my own race, and I sent out invites early in November detailing the proposed craziness.  13.1 miles (13.4, actually) around the lakes near my apartment, hopefully supported by a few friends here and there and culminating in beers and burgers at a bar downtown. When late October ended with the end of a relationship, appropriately enough right after my October half-marathon, I contemplated canceling the race.  I could run the distance on my own, no need for additional festivities, no need to highlight my depression with glaring requirements for jubilation. The support was really superfluous anyway, I ran longer on my own all the time.  I listed a lot of justifications internally for calling the whole thing off.

The reasons I felt I could not cancel came in the form of friendships. Text messages and the occasional tease about my silly race, questions about where the mulled wine station should be located, inquiries into my sanity, requests for where an intrepid bike rider might join the fray, what my preferred snack might be around mile 5. I didn't have the heart to be less than the bubbly woman most of my friends expect, and didn't want my 32nd birthday to be the one I remembered as "Canceled Due To Sadness."  So I faked enthusiasm for this race, and crossed my fingers that it would feel legitimate eventually.

A dear friend ran the length of the race with me and we chatted about work and church and general gossip, the way women do.  We were joined for 6-7 miles by two other dear friends, one on two wheels and the other my first and biggest cheerleader of this marathon nonsense. The run went quickly, not only because we chatted and laughed the whole way, but because I was greeted by friendly faces every few miles.

I don't think anyone ever outgrows the grin that accompanies clapping and cheering of one's name. My friends, Sharon and Amy, were the first pit stop, manned with gatorade and twizzlers and gummi bears and hugs.  Sharon cheered me on at my first half-marathon several years ago, and I was reminded of that when I heard her call my name. Still "Go Rachel", still running, still smiling, still one step in front of the other, still surrounded by friends, none of this has changed.

Other friends, along with my parents, peppered the rest of the route.  Mile 12 held the added bonus of girlfriends in brightly colored jackets and silly hats, offering a thermos of mulled wine to cushion that last mile. With each hug and high five and smile, I mirrored the same.  And my smiles were borne largely out of surprise. I just kept wondering why all of these folks showed up, why my friends ran and biked with me, why my mom brought those pretzels, why my dad would tell stories about me, why anyone would carve time out of their weekend to do something this ridiculous. The race was a purely self-serving endeavor. The goal was unimportant for everyone but me, and yet I was important enough to support on a Saturday morning. It seemed nuts. Are all of my friends nuts?

I have no expectation that broken hearts heal overnight, or that a string of happy moments adequately guard one's mind from venturing down darker paths on occasion.  But I think God takes care of people in ways fashioned purely for that individual.  I think He knows how to wrap us up and heal us in ways we don't even imagine as necessary.  When I crafted this race a couple months ago, I had no idea that I would need it.  It was a silly way to celebrate a birthday. But after that run, shoes removed, sitting on my couch and waiting for the sitting-on-the-couch-sadness to take over and make me feel small again, I instead was struck by how many people hugged me that day, who gave me flowers, who brought me cupcakes, who brought me a rosemary bush, who bought my lunch, who wished me a happy year, who signed a card.  And despite a month of feeling unimportant and easily discarded, I felt God hold me closely and whisper, "I made this day for you, before you were born."