The past couple years around this time, I’ve gone through phases where I decide that I simply have to give up coffee, cold turkey…Usually for health reasons and/or general masochism.
Needless to say, these phases usually last about three days. (What can I say, I like my coffee the way I like my men – strong, straight, and the kind that give me goosebumps.) This year, I’m older, wiser, and more
codependent committed to my caffeine habit than ever. Me and Mr. Coffee are in it for the long haul.
Anyway, if we were sitting on my front porch, I’d probably be going on and on about the new tap house I visited last night. The Hop House was a new-to-me place that one of my best friends from college told me we had to try, so we celebrated Thirsty Thursday the right way:
Beers, fried things, and lots of laughs. It’s the way to go.
Can we talk about the crispy brussels sprouts we split? I kid you not, one of the most delicious things I’ve eaten so far this year. Pretty sure the tables around us thought I was speaking in tongues, because I get pretty…vocal…when my food is good.
And yall? This food was good. Unlike my return to hot yoga earlier this week, this food was not weird-in-a-good-way. It was good-in-a-really-greasy-good-way, just as bar food should be.
I might tell you I’ve been feeling very grateful for my friends and siblings this week. More so than usual, I was reminded of what a blessing it is to have people who will listen to you talk like a crazy person, give (good) advice, challenge you, and make you laugh…often at yourself…
…or at them, if they’re so inclined. Because I’m convinced laughter is tied with exercise for being the best medicine.
If you were still sitting on my front porch after I’d yammered on about how much I love cruciferous vegetables and my friends and yoga (in that order, too, if we’re being honest), you’d be a saint. Then you’d probably hear me singing this song, which I’ve had stuck in my head all week.
This song, yall.
So the original is from Peter, Paul, and Mary, and it’s just not my jam. Not at all. But This version of “Five Hundred Miles” from J.T., Carey Mulligan, and Stark Sands (from Inside Llewyn Davis) is pretty close to what some might call “perfection.”
Something about those voices and sad strings playing together…it makes me homesick – and for what, I’m not sure – but in the sweetest way. It’s longing and hope and goodbye and what if, all in one beautiful bittersweet bundle of chords and harmonies. That probably makes no sense anywhere but this creative corner of my soul, so to put it more simply…it makes a person feel things.
After a day of listening to the above song on loop and singing it under my breath whenever I wasn’t talking to someone, I decided to record a few lines of it. You know, just to see if this music-school-dropout’s still got “it.” (“It” is a very relative concept here.) About two lines in, I apparently breathed a little too enthusiastically and started aspirating on my own spit.
While recording myself.
I’d say cut me off a piece of humble pie, but after that episode, I figure I’d probably choke on it.
And no, I don’t still have “it.” Maybe I never did, but that’s beside the point.
And with that, I’m signing off. It’s Friday, and it’s five o-clock somewhere…yall know what to do.