Yesterday I didn’t get to post. Because I spent most of the day, in shock, and the entire evening….in tears. Don’t ask. Can’t tell.

Anyway, my lack of a post yesterday……irked me all day today. You see, this blog, my writing…it’s not really for you. It’s for me. My therapy, for lack of a better term. And holy shitsnacks, did I need some therapy yesterday. Who am I kidding? I need therapy round the clock at this point, or at the very least a Bat Phone that leads directly to God’s desk. Of course, I would likely ask to speak to my mama when God answered, but you get the point.

So, I’m dealing with some impossibly tough circumstances at the moment. But I can’t write about them. Specifically, that is. At least not right now. In time, friends, in time. Cool your jets though….I’m not dying of a terminal illness, nor are any of my family members. At least not that I’m aware of. Something like that would do me in. Literally. But I digress.

What I CAN tell you is every single time I have a “Really? WTF?!!” moment in my life, I listen to Dave Matthews and his band of geniuses playing instruments. I’ve come to accept that Dave is my “wtf moment” savior. Maybe it’s because we share a birthday, despite the fact that he is 5 years older. The music library on my iPod…90% DMB. Seriously. I had the pleasure of seeing them play their very first show back in 1991 in Charlottesville, Virginia, and have been to an obscene number of live shows since. Think triple digits. Anyway, it was shortly after my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer that I began listening to their music, and it just spoke to the fibers of my soul. Every song seemed to be about me, and whatever crisis I happened to be experiencing. They even have a song titled “Dancing Nancies”, which is rather eerie  because my name is Nancy and I have a BA degree in dance. If you know DMB, and are thinking “But that song is about…” Yes, I am aware the song is about transvestite hookers in Amsterdam. Let’s move on. Without the slightest hesitation, I can say that Dave, is the other man in my life. And The Man is just fine with that. Through several, crazy, my stars must have been in alignment coincidences (which you will read about another time), I’ve met Dave on a few occasions. Therefore, I can report with confidence that he is a very nice guy. He looks directly into your eyes when he speaks, and while listening to you, making you feel as though nothing else in the world matters to him at that moment except what you have to tell him. Truly a rare, and remarkable personality trait. And he likes to drink Jack Daniels. A good ole boy, if I’ve ever met one, who happens to be a rock star. And in my religious worship of music, he is a sacrament. Plain and simple.

So.

Last night, long after I should have written a post, and way past my bedtime, I was lying outside in my pj’s and bathrobe, on the front lawn, looking at the stars, with headphones shoved into my ears, listening to Dave, and silently sobbing. At 1 am. The Man came out there and asked me what the hell I was doing, as if he didn’t know, and told me to at least go onto the patio so the neighbors wouldn’t think “we were weird”. Too late for that, I’m afraid. Regardless, I went inside and crawled in bed. Then I got up and danced, cried some more, and thought about how this is only the beginning of a very long, personal DMB show for me.

xo,

N

***If you’d like to read about Beyoncé being a sacrament to someone, click here. That way, you’ll know I’m not completely bat-shit crazy. Although it wouldn’t be the first time, and I doubt it will be the last.