Humming under my breath

I figured out last night just where Drama Mama got those moves. Yep, it became clear to me as the evening progressed at the Paul Westerberg concert that I am, as always, the primary bad influence on my children.

What can I say? Yes, I danced like a loon – and it was pretty frickin’ amazing to do so. Even at 42, you see, musicians have the power to move me in ways both visceral and inspiring. And yes, I was viscerally inspired last night – especially to Paul’s ought-to-be a classic ironic rendition of the David Cassidy hit I Think I Love You.

But the night was memorable in another way. See, the music kept dredging up memories and feelings and silken sensory flashbacks that circled back and then expanded on each other with every melodic riff and scrap of lyric. And those seemingly disparate threads started weaving themselves into the tapestry I have in front of me today – and the chance I now have in front of me to change the pattern if I dare.

Michigan, 1971 – The first time ever feeling that swoopy, dreamy ‘ohmygodhe’sSOamazing’ emotion, coupled with the first time I ever wanted to play dumb about it (“No, I do NOT have a crush on David Cassidy. Euuuw!”):

This morning I woke up with this feeling
I didn’t know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself
I’d hide it to myself and never talk about it
And did not go and shout it when you walked into the room.

Michigan, 1989 – Michigan Theater, Ann Arbor, The Replacements concert. Seemingly jaded at the tender age of 27, attending the show with a very recent-ex boyfriend, amidst a group of friends. Doing the cool, ironic, detached thing, to pretend I just Didn’t Care. Didn’t make the move, didn’t make the effort, regretted it for years later:

I got my hands in my pockets and I’m waiting for the day to come

Do you want me to send a letter or a note?
I won’t

February, 2005 – I’m here, you’re there, we’re both planted. I should pull back, put my hands in my pockets, dive under the pillow:

I don’t know what I’m up against
I don’t know what it’s all about
I got so much to think about

But here are holes…gaps…missing pieces…and tears in this tapestry, either done deliberately or accidentally, by my hands or the hands of others. The pattern is very clearly there to see – but it’s not too late for me to add the threads shot through with silvery hope. Even if there end up being only a handful. If I dare, that is.

February, 2005:

It’s too late to turn back here we go

Yeah, I’m 42. I’m still, um, viscerally inspired. I’ve still got the moves. And I’m taking the leap, fully aware that I may land flat on my face for the world to see (well, since I’m not talking about it anywhere else and will stop here shortly, it’s only you poor readers who’ve struggled to the bottom of this cryptic and/or self-indulgent post who will be privy to any fallout – if you bother to pay attention, that is…)

You’ll be here in 12 days…and I’ll be humming under my breath while I wait… but not THAT song. Nope (she says, diving back under the pillow.) Let’s start off slow with the one right below this post first…


  1. Now, because of you I will be humming Partridge Family songs ALL day. Thankew, thanew, thankew!!

    Actually, David may have been your first crush but he was in love with me. Oh, yes, in my six year old mind he was singing to me and just waiting for me to grow older. Did you have the lunch box? Did you have the plastic shopping bag with album? Did you lie on the bedroom floor with your folds-like-a-suitcase turntable and listen to the songs so often that your step father was hapy when a new album came out so that at least there would be new songs ot hear over and over?

    Well, did you? If not. Please forget the David thing. He WAS mine.

    And, yes, there have been others ad I still get my groove. Hoping I still do when I am YOIUR age. Which is very soon…but at least I can also be the YOUNGER she-swooned-for-david-too friend.

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