A frog bobs his oversized head in time almost imperceptibly.
A traffic cone prances around the periphery of the room.
The captain of a lobster boat off the coast of Maine sashes his feet soundlessly.
He’s the only one not in costume. I think it’s just his jacket that evokes cold mornings and fishermen in Kennebunkport.
It’s Nov. 2 and somehow still Halloween in the dark basement, a disco ball sparking pings of iridescence across my friend’s face.
It’s almost 1 a.m. and I’m full of sparkly bubbles – the same kind I started my day with.
Before we make our way downstairs …
It’s quiet outside as my friend and I pull up to meet another. I’m wondering if we’re so late to the show that it’s over or people have left. But that’s one great optical illusion about fall and winter. Folks aren’t spilling outside so often to grab a quick smoke or feel the sun warm their backs or enjoy the slow descent of the sun. What can look stone-cold quiet on the outside, is warmly enormous on the inside.
We try to be as quiet as possible as we sneak into seats in the back. The laughter is uproarious, and the storytellers are pulling us in with their emotions and experiences and their charisma.
I’m disappointed to have missed the first half of this comedic variety show, but I have, as is often the case, overcommitted myself to fun. Overcommitting is often how I get through the week, and this one was a dramatic doozy of a 7-day sprint.
Before we arrive in Lawrenceville …
My friend waits for me outside. We make it in the nick of time to grab an overpriced glass of Cabernet before heading to our seats in the old theater. The performer tells tales and weaves her woes into a security blanket so snug, I’m convinced we had the same upbringing. And yet, our stories couldn’t be any different.
The applause snaps, crackles, and pops, and I proudly whisper to my friend that I did not, in fact, shush the narrators behind me – two women playing coffee catch-up in the middle of a comedy show.
Before I drive downtown …
I wake up from a luxurious nap. I’ve already had a full day of fun, and work to rally to do another shift to soothe my soul.
Before I crawl in bed …
My friend and I swap stories of heartache and health, of horrors and happiness, parading around the East End, shopping, sipping, sentiment-ing, and making up for lost time. We find stories and memories in vintage stores, coffee shops, jewelry, chocolate, and in oddities and curiosities.
Before we get to walking …
We enter a former funeral home, and like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, it takes us three tries to finally find the section serving brunch.
I decide on Prosecco, she on a beer, and while we cheers, I say, “You know … one of the best days of my life started this way. Right across the street. Years ago, drinking champagne on a 60-degree day in that cemetery over there.”
“That sounds like a very good day,” my friend says.
It was, I think. It wasn’t the most fanciful, the most fabulous, the most planned, but I never forget how that day made me feel: warm, content, sleepy, full.
Before the best day …
It’s 9 a.m. I stand in front of the ballet barre, thanking God in advance for a soft day because the week was so hard.
“First position!” My instructor demands.
First. The beginning …
There’s no better way to start the perfect day, so I decide to begin.
Comments