The public restroom was enormous, modern, and clean. My body was heavy as I juggled a bright red, square, microfiber pillow (for my rear/hips) and light blue denim jacket with jingly buttons. To avoid germs in the shiny stall I aimed to kick the toilet to flush. I should really be restricted to a small rubber room on Sundays and get occasional reminders of my lack of coordination for the day. Midway to the handle my middle toe slammed into the corner of the metal feminine napkin disposal box. I felt a sudden shock of pain and felt as if I had broken my toe. Seconds later, as I made my way to wash my hands, I experienced a wave of unconcern as if it never happened. I had to focus hard on my next task. After struggling with the automatic foam soap, water, and paper towel dispensers I peered down to see blood all over my toe and teal/brown sandal. What the? You have got to be kidding me.
After a small battle with the automatic paper towel dispenser again, I hobbled out of the fancy bathroom bewildered with a handful of rough wet and dry paper towels. Thankfully, a shiny, beautiful metal bench awaited me just outside the door. “What happened? Are you okay?” my husband startlingly hollered to me. Ugh! Blood continued to gush as if my toe had been amputated. We could subtlety hear Johanna Newsom strumming her harp and singing and conveniently there was also a flat screen television in plain sight for us to watch her. Finally, the blood was under control and I bandaged my tiny wound in the newspaper-like paper towel. Fancy!
My husband and I laughed as we made our way to our garden box seats to see the remaining portion of Johanna’s set, eat, drink (no alcohol, of course), and wait for the band we came to see- Wilco! This was a big adventure for a Sunday when my body is being hammered by methotrexate. I was determined to live life without limitations.
Wilco stepped out on the stage and a strong sense of peace and exhilaration hit me as the warm breeze swirled through the Bowl. People were eating snacks, drinking wine, and truly enjoying their lives all around us. I could almost taste the Merlots, Chiantis, Cabs, and Syrahs with the drafts. People danced, sang every lyric, and cheered like I haven’t seen in awhile. It’s my peeve that people get wasted on any given drug and talk through shows. I could think of better places to get wasted and socialize. It’s also frustrating when people sit idle, almost dead, as the artist(s) pours their heart into their performance. I vividly recall one show where my husband was scolded by an audience member for singing along. How dare he enjoy himself!
It was a whirlwind of a night with conflicting feelings- strong emotions, exhaustion, peace, and joy. It was hard to hold my head up. It was hard to experience the show the way everyone around me was. However, live music is very therapeutic and heals like no other.
It was after 10pm and we slowly made our way back to our car. The Bowl actually had escalators to the parking areas, which was completely rad! I got in, reclined my chair, let my head softly hit my flat and cold pillow, and pulled the purple blanket that was once my great-grandmother’s over me. I was ready for our trek home. I did it, I made it to the concert on a Sunday!