 I just got back from seven, blissful days in Florida. It’s going to take me a minute to re-acclimate to autumn temperatures and, well, the real world. I predict it will be at least Thursday before I stop wandering out onto my porch in a tank top, expecting an ocean view instead of the dying hostas and caladium in my front yard.
Truth be told, I hope I’m still surprised that my Highlands bungalow isn’t, in fact, oceanfront property all the way into December. I want this beach high to last until spring because I hate, hate, HATE the cold. I feel like Louisville got gypped out of summer, what with all the cool snaps and dang rain, so this trip sort of helped me to reclaim the final fragments of a season that ended too soon in my hometown. And speaking of trips and vacations, the two are not mutually exclusive in my book. A vacation out of town is a time to reflect, rejuvenate, overeat without remorse, soak up your surroundings and basically sit on your ass. A trip, on the other hand, is an excursion with an agenda, guided tours, scheduled stops and a frenetic pace. You go on a trip to Rome; you vacation at the beach.
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 I’m not a competitive gambler, but I am pretty big on ritual and tradition. One of my favorites is an annual Derby Day party I have attended for the past 12 or so years. It didn’t happen in 2013 because Carolyn, the hostess and bookie, had to work, but she revived it this year … much to the delight of her regulars.
There is never a shortage of things to do around Derby. On the day of the big race, I generally receive two or three other party invites, plus the occasional opportunity to go to the track. I turn them all down in favor of this one get-together. As far as I am concerned, it is THE thing to do on Derby. I met Carolyn in 1998, when I started working at Business First. She was my managing editor. It didn’t take too long for us to become good friends, and she extended the invitation to her Derby soiree.  The soundtrack of my life is very eclectic, and it’s constantly evolving. If you saw the playlists on my iTunes, you would probably question whether I was a teenage break dancer or a senior citizen. Srsly.
These days, I find myself listening to a lot of techno and dance music, but that’s mostly by happenstance. See, I participate in a wide variety of fitness classes (boot camp, strength and interval training, cycling), and nearly all of them are set to the songs of Lady Gaga, Rihanna, Pit Bull, and a bunch of other odd-named Top 40 performers I had never heard of until I started suffering through burpees, deadlifts and squats along with the driving beats of their music. When I am not trying to keep up with my insanely fit instructors or stay on pace during a short run through in my neighborhood, I don’t seek out that kind of music. I mean, it’s great to keep me motivated during a workout, but I have no desire to hear “Timber” pulsing on my iPod when I’m trying to edit a book on estate planning law. Anyway, the above diatribe was intended to illustrate that I am open to ANY genre of music, under the right circumstances.  Saturday night, I heard the most amazing version of “Sympathy for the Devil” ever, but not because it was an award-winning piece of artistic gold. I mean, it sounded pretty damn good and all, but it wasn’t the song itself that killed me so much as who was playing it and why.
Watching a certain group of guys rockin’ out on stage together for the first time in 20-plus years transported me to the back entrances of the Red Barn and Tewligans circa 1989. I vividly remember hauling guitar cases and random pieces of drum kit as the invested groupie in a few up-and-coming bands in the Louisville music scene during the late ’80s and early ’90s. Those were some of very best of times of my young adult life, without a doubt. It would be accurate to say that the pangs of nostalgia on Saturday night were palpable.  She’s gone. Outta here. Bounced. Left the building.
My girl, Rebecca, one of the closest friends I’ve ever had in my lifetime, packed up this weekend and moved eight hours away. Oh, and the bitch had the nerve to go NORTH. I mean, if she was going to leave me, the least she could’ve done is put down roots somewhere warm. Shit. I’m kidding. Mostly. Of course, I realize Rebecca did not leave ME. I am not nearly that egotistical or selfish. And I also know that her move to Madison, Wis., is going to be tremendous for her. She’s starting a kickass job and pursuing a romantic relationship with a stellar dude. The logical, gracious side of me is genuinely happy for her. But on a visceral, emotional level, I had to fight the intense urge to grab onto her ankles like a cranky toddler and MAKE. HER. STAY.  Since he was born in October 2012, I have made a concerted effort to visit with my sweet little (honorary) nephew, Raylan, at least a few times a month. (OK, I go over there to see his parents, too. His mom is my best friend, Whitney.)
During my last visit, Whitney and I were talking about Raylan’s many emerging, unique traits — what makes him giggle like a madman, what foods he loves, and which of his toys and blankets he favors. It’s wonderful to live vicariously through this new little family, because God knows I am done having babies myself. Talking about baby stuff got me to thinking about my son, Ethan’s, favorites back in the day. He’s 18 now, so most of his playthings are packed away in our basement for safekeeping, except for the few he has kept in random drawers in his room. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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