Lucky All The Time
January 28, 2021
Monday’s Rockwood Music Hall Facebook Live was a love letter to my wife, sure; I recounted our 2005 meet cute in some detail and to a historically accurate soundtrack. (Mine.)
But it was more than that.
I was 34-years-old when we met, and well aware that whatever I was doing wasn’t working. My day job was going well enough, but my love life was in shambles, and the cover of Rolling Stone was looking increasingly unlikely.
And so I hunkered down. I committed myself to six month of solitude: no dating, no kissing, no falling in love. I spent most of my time in my studio, and some in therapy, differentiating between being alone and being lonesome, and finding at least a shred of appreciation for myself (as opposed to looking for it externally).
Which is, of course, when Abbigail walked in the door, and introduced herself.
I liked her immediately. But I was resolute. And stupid. And lucky. Let me explain.
I was committed to getting at least some of my shit together (resolute), so I discarded her business card (stupid) figuring it was just too much information for anyone to process. Three months later (at the protestation of some), she emailed again (lucky).
We took dating extraordinarily slowly. (She says now she was initially baffled as to whether I ever liked her). We were married less than two years later. (I did, a lot.)
Years later, as I was finishing up “Great Lakes,” I played a new song for her.
Here she comes
She’s all dressed up
She’s all messed up
Think she’s had enough
For the first time ever (and since), Abbi insisted I re-write the lyric. And so I did, to this:
She’s got a way of seeing
Everything worth believing
She keeps wide awake
While she’s dreaming
“That’s how I get by,” I sing. “I get lucky all the time.”
Only now, as I type, do I realize that Abbi was insisting I imagine a new feminine archetype: less Joan Crawford, more Joan of Arc, less Joan Collins, more Joan Baez.
Lucky, lucky me.
For an instant Monday night, I did. And I think I might just be getting the hang of it.
But it was more than that.
I was 34-years-old when we met, and well aware that whatever I was doing wasn’t working. My day job was going well enough, but my love life was in shambles, and the cover of Rolling Stone was looking increasingly unlikely.
And so I hunkered down. I committed myself to six month of solitude: no dating, no kissing, no falling in love. I spent most of my time in my studio, and some in therapy, differentiating between being alone and being lonesome, and finding at least a shred of appreciation for myself (as opposed to looking for it externally).
Which is, of course, when Abbigail walked in the door, and introduced herself.
I liked her immediately. But I was resolute. And stupid. And lucky. Let me explain.
I was committed to getting at least some of my shit together (resolute), so I discarded her business card (stupid) figuring it was just too much information for anyone to process. Three months later (at the protestation of some), she emailed again (lucky).
We took dating extraordinarily slowly. (She says now she was initially baffled as to whether I ever liked her). We were married less than two years later. (I did, a lot.)
Years later, as I was finishing up “Great Lakes,” I played a new song for her.
Here she comes
She’s all dressed up
She’s all messed up
Think she’s had enough
For the first time ever (and since), Abbi insisted I re-write the lyric. And so I did, to this:
She’s got a way of seeing
Everything worth believing
She keeps wide awake
While she’s dreaming
“That’s how I get by,” I sing. “I get lucky all the time.”
Only now, as I type, do I realize that Abbi was insisting I imagine a new feminine archetype: less Joan Crawford, more Joan of Arc, less Joan Collins, more Joan Baez.
Lucky, lucky me.
For an instant Monday night, I did. And I think I might just be getting the hang of it.
