Old men wanna be rich, rich men wanna be king

Historically, I have not predicted American elections accurately. I cried when John Kerry lost, and was shocked (although delighted) when Barack Obama won. I resolved not to check about the 2024 polls but failed at about 9pm and started obsessively refreshing the red/blue map until I went to bed to panic sleep. Mark woke me about 3am to let me know it was over. The election was over, perhaps the free world lives to fight another day, but how many.

We got up in the real morning, exhausted and shell-shocked, and my work was in disarray, everyone so miserable my boss finally offered me the day off if I needed to collect myself. I said I could work but appreciated their forbearance if I wasn’t quite at 100%. In truth, I prefer not to have too much leisure time to be sad—I went back to work as soon as possible when my dad died, and this was no death in the family. I worked through the day, feeling discombobulated but also buoyant because…we were going to Bruce Springsteen in the evening! And I was really really excited.

Mark has been a lifelong Bruce fan, since childhood, and has always wanted to see him live. There was an earlier attempt to see a Toronto show with some friends, a year or so ago, that ended when the Boss got an ulcer and cancelled the show. And Mark figured that was it—the guy is 75 and unlikely to tour that much more. But a bunch of other stuff happened, it’s a really confusing long story, and one his friends actually got tickets unbeknownst to pretty much everyone until a few days before, and it was just the nicest weirdest best surprise.

I got to go because right place, right time, married to the right guy. In the Battle of the Poets of the New Jersey Turnpike, I’ve always been more a Billy Joel stan, but this is not that post. I love Springsteen because c’mon, he’s a legend—I sang along with fully half the songs last night. It was a good crowd: some people sang along with EVERYTHING. People were just overjoyed to be there, singing and quiet, dancing and still, drunk and sober. Very few people watching the show through their phones—I guess the advantage of an older crowd. But oh, no one watched it like Mark watched it—he didn’t even sing, or bounce around much, but he was rapt. He knew all the songs, he knew who everyone was in the E Street Band, he knew when all the songs were written. He was so happy. It occurred to me joy is a joint asset in a marriage—Mark being so happy was just as good as me being that happy, I WAS that happy, it was the same.

Not during the show, but before and after, I felt guilty for going out and doing something wonderful when everyone I knew was so miserable and so much badness is about to be unleased. Today I found strain of online post of people reacting against being urged to volunteer and fight back against the Trumpian horrors, saying they need to rest and be sad first. Seems like a legit position but I haven’t seen those other posts, telling people NOT to rest and be sad—obviously I’m in the “take the day off work if you need it” world. Are people really going to be fighting about whether rest and grief are ok?

I was glad there was joy for 1000s of people at that concert, and that we were having that collective sweaty singy experience together. I admit, it might have been more pure it were a sunset or something else everyone has access to instead of a purchased experience, albeit one someone had purchased for us (seriously, Dave, never going to forget this). But we have to enjoy what we can—it’s tough enough out there.

I will actually probably find a way to volunteer soon, not because it’s the “right thing to do” or even because I think I can help—though I hope I can help—but just as a way to feel better. It’s selfish, mainly. My history of activism, mainly, is terrible. There’s a photo of me somewhere, dancing with my brother and my dad in a parking lot on the way to volunteer for the Kerry campaign that I later ended up crying over, and the glorious frenzy of my year in Extinction Rebellion ended so terribly that when I just typed it out now it sounded so mean and bonkers I thought I’d better delete. Maybe this time will be better.

I’ve never been a big blessing counter, but sometimes, it is a little bit necessary to feel lucky even when things are terrible too. Everything can be both.

Dialogue from the way home, nearly 1am:
RR: What do you think the cats are doing?
MS: Wondering where we are so late on a Wednesday night?
RR: Yeah, I bet they are up. They slept all day because you weren’t home.
MS: They did?
RR: Yeah, there was no point in being conscious if you weren’t there. I felt that way too but I had to work.
MS: Ha!
RR: But they were expecting a long evening of hanging out and enjoying your company, and now no one has been there.
MS: And now we are going straight to bed when we get home.
RR: Are we?
MS: It’s after midnight.
RR: And you think the cats will accept that, after no time with you all day? They’ve waited all day to see you.
MS: I’m the Bruce Springsteen of the cats?
RR: Even more so really: you are prepared to spend one evening with Bruce and that’s enough for a lifetime. The cats want 10-12 hours with you per day, minimum, or they will eat an iPhone charger.

<3

RR