Last Saturday I lucked up and inherited a pair of tickets to hear David Sedaris read some of his work to us. I had read some of his short stories before in the New Yorker - stories that will make you laugh hard enough to wet your pants. In fact, I think there should probably be warning signs at his performances to "go" before you settle into your seat for an evening of entertainment. On this particular night at Vanderbilt, there were signs - signs that warned you that the nearest restrooms were in the next building on campus. I probably should have made the hike. I was glad to be out of the rain, however, and eager to find our seats. We were three rows from the stage, which was great until we needed to leave early. No matter - I enjoyed the show. I've gone to NPR.org and listened to sound clips of the same material, but I have to say that they were much better when you could see the smirk on his face as he told the punch lines to his best jokes. It was a delightful experience.
On the ride into work this morning I let myself be lost in the foggy mist and enjoyed the last of the snow from this past weekend. It will no doubt be gone soon, soaked into the ground as if it never existed. Snow for me has always held a deeper meaning. I am happiest when it snows, yet I couldn't begin to explain why. So I looked out the window, imagining romantic characters striding across the pure white expanses, and just breathed in the beauty. Snow wraps around the seemingly dead landscape, and whispers promises of rebirth and renewal as it gently cradles the world in its soft, white blanket.
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