Yay Regina Spector! Boo Mercury Retrograde.

Tonight I was all excited to be going out on the town- for a Regina Spector concert with my friend Aoife. I put on brand new make-up and heels and took some pictures, feeling classy. As I strode to Adelaide (my car), humming a little tune and taking in the fall air, I thought I would check my phone to see what time it was. 

Panic rose as I realized my phone was not in the bag, but I remembered quickly that this was the bag that had a rip in the interior liner, and the last time I had taken it out (actually, about two summers ago, also when hanging out with Aoife), there had been a rather embarrassing Episode at a Portland bar that involved a half hour search by Aoife, me, the bartenders, and locals for my car keys, and an apology to AAA Emergency Road Service when I finally discovered the rip, and the keys along with it. 

So I confidently searched within the depths of the rip, only to find that the phone was definitively not there this time. I ran back to my room, tore the contents of it apart, peeked in every nook and cranny from underwear drawer to wastebasket, still to no avail. I still had my coat on and was working up a sweat; the carefully orchestrated make-up and hair were starting to smudge and frizzle. Grumbling to myself, I charged back down the stairs and onto the lawn where my purse was still sitting, and demanded that the Universe reveal my phone to me. And sure enough, in the rip, I now saw a pink edge poking out. Oh, cosmic fairies and how you toy!

On the drive over to the T station, I became increasingly aware of my left contact lens, and the sensation of it trying to make its way slowly but deliberately out of my eye. I inspected the situation in a rear-view mirror while idling at a red light, and there it was; the second troublesome rip of the night, this one in my contact. 

"Well!" I thought to myself. "I'll just manifest it to heal. I'll DEMAND that it not bother me anymore!" And so from Wellesley to Newton, I thanked the Universe over and over again for the miraculous staying-intact powers of my contact lens. 

But the positive thinking got somewhat derailed when I found out that parking at the T-station was $6.00. It trickled back again when my feminine wiles got me onto the train for free. And then it faded pretty much for good when, three stops in, I realized that I had left my phone in Adelaide. (My car).  

After getting off the inbound train, crossing to the outbound side, and having the next two outbound trains pass without stopping, my grateful affirmations to the Universe had been permanently abandoned. I had a sarcastic laugh at my nearly ordering 46 dollars worth of subway tickets, since at the rate my night was going, it might not be such a reckless investment. 

Twenty minutes later, I was back at the original station and halfway to my car when my contact fell out. 

"I just hope I can see enough to find my goddamn PHONE," I thought, half-contemplating calling Aoife and telling her that I had given up. But then I decided I was curious to see just how much worse things could get, and what it would be like trying to navigate a city with one eye. I retrieved my phone, which was cloaked under a veil of scarves and decorative flowers. Then, for the second time that night, I walked across the parking lot, mounted the T platform, and boarded the inbound train to Boston. 

At long last life

started to regain its pleasantry once I met up with Aoife, who had been waiting an hour, and thus drinking a fair amount of beer. I had a pastrami sandwich and a Guiness waiting for me, and thats never something to be complained about, and pretty soon my blood sugar began to stabilize and my vision found a way to unite itself, and we headed over to the concert for more drinks and merriment. 

But the fates were still frowning, it seems; my ID was declined for the first time in its young life by an Ogress of a woman who made some big fuss about it being a duplicate. I indulged in belligerent argument with her for ten futile minutes before finally turning on my heels, marching to the next table, presenting my ID and a charming smile to the male middle-aged bartender, and receiving a glass of Zinfandel. Boo-yah! 

Then we ascended five flights of stairs to be escorted through dark and narrow aisles by an usher, and between the heels and drinks and lopsided vision, it was a miracle I didn't land in anyone's lap. We settled into seats P1 and P3 to enjoy a thoroughly quirky and engaging concert by Regina Spektor, who not only plays piano and sings, but strums out a mean tune on electric guitar and sometimes bangs wildly on a chair!

Once we got up to leave, I did a quick survey of all my belongings. Keys, wallet, camera, check. I even made sure my subway pass was in an easily accessible pocket. We were reaching the aisle when I felt a tap on my shoulder- it was the guy who had been sitting in the row in front of me. 

He was holding out my phone. 

And that, dear readers, is the tale of Regina Spektor and semi-blindness and a phone that tried to escape three times. Mercury goes back to normal on September 29th. Hooray!