Going Out on Dates Alone is Weird.

At a certain point in one's middle age, if one doesn't have a partner (husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, FRIENDS) with whom to go and do things, one must consider the notion of embarking upon something interesting alone.

There's no shame in being alone, for it sort of exudes confidence and a sense of self-worth that "Hey, I can do what I want when I want to do it, and I need nobody's permission." You know, those stages of dependence to independence to interdependence. I'm lodged tightly in being independent, which is normal and healthy for a 41-year old woman.

But it's also lonesome. Very much so. Especially when you're in a crowded, intimate venue and couples are cozied beside one another enjoying the show. I was seated at a table for 4, small, with an older woman named (I think) Deborah, and we were both there to see former Monkee Michael Nesmith perform solo, at the City Winery, where I just saw Anoushka Shankar with my mom. At least then, I had somebody to talk to. Deborah (I think) was deeply ensconced in a book for the hour which preceded the show and had zero interest in speaking with me, other than to acknowledge that I was getting up to use the ladies' room and go for one last smoke before the concert began.

It was sort of ironic, then, that one of the first tunes Nez played was "Propinquity." I shot this (audio ok, video? I hadn't yet figured out the zoom on my camera).

We've been over and back about the law of attraction known as propinquity probably a dozen times in this blog, so I won't reiterate it other than to say once again that it's likely you'll form friendships or romantic bonds with the people within whom you're in close proximity (in some form or another) for a decent amount of time. It's what I believe drew me to Guy and Guy to me. (And yes, I've explained propinquity to him a dozen times too.) We've grown more and more distant since our working-together propinquity ended almost 2 years ago. I haven't seen him but briefly since his mother's wake in October, and I miss him a lot. We've talked a few times, but haven't gotten together for either coffee or dinner and now the hectic holidays are coming. I'm sure he'll claim busyness and continue to not see me, which makes me sad.

There was no dinner conversation. My server was scant. It was all very expensive. I dolled up for nobody but myself. I thoroughly enjoyed the concert, and can think of several friends (including Guy) who would've enjoyed it too, but I decided to not try and wrangle non-Monkeephiles into seeing one of them for $65 plus dinner and a $50 taxi each way (the Michigan Ave "Mag Mile Lights Festival" parade really messed up traffic) and, like when I saw The Monkees a year ago, went alone. This Nesmith tour was un-Monkeeish, with the exception of an encore including "Listen to the Band." He concentrated more so on his older work with the First National Band ("Joanne," "Silver Moon," etc) to the late 70's, disco-inspired "Cruisin'" and the groundbreaking "Rio," which shotgunned his full-length video LP, "Elephant Parts" into Grammy territory. 

It's during those moments when you kind of do feel sorry for yourself. Like, "I couldn't even find a friend willing to go with me?" and I honestly couldn't. I fooled around on my phone with Twitter and Facebook, but didn't even really have friends actively texting or exchanging with me. Certainly not Guy, to whom I'd sent a couple of pictures from the Winery. Deborah (?) was a dud. Then you become the old object of  a "tear-in-the-beer syndrome," eat your dinner in solitude, and enmesh with the music and the artist as if you were the only two people in the room. And that's what I did with Michael Nesmith. 

The tour, entitled "Movies of the Mind," combined vignettes Nez told as a backstory he'd made up about the setting of each song or medley. All very well-crafted and visionary. I missed recording the one on "Propinquity," but I got most of the story on "Some of Shelly's Blues," about a wife who, after staring out the window and getting fed up with her discontent, tells her husband she wants a divorce. (From the thrice-divorced, 71-year old Nesmith.) 

My personal cabbie, Stan, who drove me to the concert (taking the longest, most back-route, expensive way possible to the show) forgot to pick me up despite my many texts that I was ready to go, apologizing Sunday morning that he'd eaten a rotisserie chicken and passed out on his couch (ok...) so I ended up hailing the first available cab home in the 12 degree weather, thinking had I driven down, and paid the $10 valet parking, it'd be a hell of a lot cheaper, but I wasn't about to get on the crawling expressway; furthermore, I was in no shape to drive home (Valium +++). 

Seeing Nez was terrific, apart from being there solo. But behind me, across from Deborah (?) was this empty chair, that I really wish had been filled. It was filled, just in the "movie in my mind."