back on the road and a shoulder clap gone dreadfully wrong

So I'm back.

And it's really okay.

Better than okay, actually, if how I felt on stage tonight is any indication.

It was a blur of bright lights, too-red EXIT signs, the glare of all the many people who watch us with their glasses on, and the already prevalent ache in my feet--but beyond that...this sense of well-being.

Of being at the right party.

And not even needing to be the guest of honor, per se; just happy to be there at all.

Which was reassuring.

Sometimes when you leave it, even for just two weeks, it's hard to know exactly how it will greet you when you get back.

Or how you will greet it, is maybe more to the point.

And I think there was a mutual feeling of rightness between me and the show tonight. And I think it can last for these next 8 weeks too.

Because yes, touring is meeting new people. It is shiny Memphis neon signs that yell at you about their BBQ, their live music, and their bowling as you walk by. It is getting up really early in order to get to a city in which you will be sleeping pretty late during your stay. It is doing whatever it is that you want to do before that magic hour that's hardly ever before 7 o'clock pm. It is stealing away back to your hotel while your friends go out, because though you love your friends, carving out the space for music and writing and journaling--things that are best done alone--is non-negotiable. It is lots of opening nights, which means lots of opening night parties, which means justifying that dress you just bought cause look, you have something to wear it to now. A lot of somethings. It is not just having to dance and sing and act 8 times a week for an audience that is kind enough to watch and listen, it is getting to dance and sing and act 8 times a week for an audience that is kind enough to watch and listen. It is remembering that five thousand people auditioned in New York for this show and somehow you got a golden ticket.

But it is not home.

It is not Drew.

And it is not meant to last forever.

Which is why 8 more weeks is just fine with me.

And here's a word to the wise. Whenever you are talking to somebody, please just look them in the eyes. Is that too much to ask? Unless you have proof of an imminent alien invasion in the very spot in which you are having a conversation and have further proof that the alien will be appearing to the right or the left of the person with whom you are having the conversation, hovering and shifting its weight back and forth all creepily like that alien from M. Night Shamalan's Signs, then look at them, darnit.

Because you know what might happen if you don't?

I'll tell you because I know, wish to God that I didn't.

You might be just getting your 'ready to wrap up this convo' tone of voice in gear, and then as if to finally put it to rest, initiate a final parting gesture, the shoulder clap that I am pretty sure men learn to do right after they are taught the one-armed side hug. You intend to clap the shoulder, but since you aren't freaking really looking at the other person, you instead sort of awkwardly clap one of the main parts that is covered by the bikini top, if you know what I mean.

And you both pretend it didn't happen, but gosh it did.

So, please look while you're talking.

And definitely look during any and all attempted shoulder claps.

Because I would sure enough appreciate it.