Last night I grooved in the same room as Nile Rodgers and Chic played Get Lucky, We are Family and Good Times. Then I proceeded to cry through most of Duran Duran's set so whatever but at least I could dance while I cried. Lochlan cheered and said maybe I finally learned to multitask but maybe I was just sad that my metal plating wore off thanks to my caustic tears, revealing the beautiful truth underneath that from the age of 10 through 12 I lived and breathed for Duran Duran. I still know all the words. To all the songs. At least the ones up until the mid-nineties
Lochlan assured me that I still have all my cred. That as long as I'm a music lover genres don't matter.
What about country?
Okay, maybe that would matter.
(Fun fact: In the very early nineties I would sing along to Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood because DAMN. The boys HATED that stage of me until they saw me in a cowboy hat and braids.)
Lochlan danced too and Lochlan doesn't dance. We got very sweaty. All my pictures and video are ridiculously blurry and terrible but that's okay, I didn't put any effort into looking at my phone anyway. It was an in-the-moment moment. We had a blast. Everyone in the arena did, by the looks of things. No one, not a single person that I could see even used their chairs.
