Harder To Believe

The little things aren’t working anymore. Not the turkey burger, the ice cream, the quiet night in front of the television. Nothing.

Yesterday was a bit of a soul crusher. I don’t usually loath Mondays. I get up pretty quickly most mornings. I like what I do. But I just didn’t have it yesterday. I just didn’t want to be there. I needed more weekend.

I finally leave the office around 7:30, wade through the throngs of tourists, descend the sweaty subway, wait ten minutes for a 2/3, ride to 72d Street, walk to 80th Street, get to my stoop, reach into my pocket for my keys and find that I’ve left them at work.

F’in’ brilliant.

I buzz my neighbor Dana. She lets me into the building. After some climbing about, I find that — not surprisingly — my apartment is far from unpenetrable.

I’m soaked straight through and dirty when I get inside. I’m tired and cranky. My turkey burger deluxe with chedder cheese shows up. The fries are soggy.

I sit down on the couch and I think, “Man, I am so not ready to come home to a spouse.” I mean, if I were married and came home to someone else, would I be entitled to be cranky? Or worse, whiney? Maybe not. And come to think of it, maybe that would be best. Maybe that’s the point. A little less me, a whole lot more we.

There’s not much reason for it, really. I got some great external validation, anyway. Kurt Loder sent me an email saying “You rool!” (I just made a few fixes to his article, but still). Stephanie sent me a photo of her adorable daughter, Emily, rockin’ a “Love & Other Indoor Games” t-shirt (though her expression says, “Mom, you’re embarassing me!” Which I recall is most expression when you’re a teenager). And, you know, every day I get an email or two from a friend out there in the blogosphere. Which I really appreciate. But, but, but…

But cry me a river, right? What can I tell ya’? The site ain’t called www.somebodyelsesname.com. You signed up for it. I’m just tellin’ ya’ what it feels like.

I did dig on sleep last night. I had a great dream featuring this young woman who used to come see my shows (before I rebuffed her advances — in real life, not in the dream, which is what made it a great dream). I had plane tickets to Rome, but from the wrong airport. I remember that. And I remember mackin’ on her big time. Which was dually reciprocated. In the dream. Yeah, sleep is good. And excercise is good. But there’s not enough of either of those.

Woe is me. Not my point. My point? I’m gonna’ drag my ass out of my malaise tonight for your listening pleasure. Amy Hills and I are performing together at Pianos. She’s a real talent, has a beautiful voice, and is a downright stunner. Plus, we’re covering one of my first favorite duets. I’ll give you two hints: 1) I was ten-years-old, 2) the band is from Sheffield, England.

See you there.