Better is less than Perfect

Talk about the blessed experience. Sometimes I feel like I should stop being amazed already. But, I'd actually hate if that ever happened. I don't ever want to take for granted the synchonous magic that makes me feel like I don't just live in the world, I am part of it, integral to it, co-creator of my life's script in real time.

The Police. I just love their music. Yeah, everyone often says, "Oh yeah, I like Sting too." Well, yeah, I enjoy Sting. But there's something unique about The Police. It wouldn't have it's flavor without Sting's lyrics, Sting's perspective, Sting's love of spiritual and personal growth, Sting's style of bringing to life the shared ironies of modern living on our modern psyche. The Police, though, just do something different to me. Something I like a lot. I suspect it has to do with the unique, dare I say, the Synchronicity of the three of them in concert.

To say I was disappointed when the tickets went on sale and I went online only to find that all the venues I tried were sold out just a few hours later is...accurate. Truth be told, I didn't find it that depressing or anything, but I was really, really disappointed.

And I might note that I felt kinda old for being so interested in going to a reunion band performance. In my mind, that's always something older folk, middle-aged folk do in some joke of an effort to reclaim their youth. Something about baby-boomers still going to see the Rolling Stones always seemed a bit, well, sad.

Yeah, well, I'm embracing my middle-agedom today.
...

The Magic? I log on to check my workplace email this morning. I haven't checked it in a few days. There was some "junk" mail from Live Nation. The norm for me would be to either delete it directly or in rare occasions, to open it after a few days when I was really, really bored and all the usual forms of procrastination at the job exhausted. The only reason it didn't happen this morning is because my finger must've slipped. I sincerely was trying to open the work-related stuff first. Really. No...really!

It opens. I prepare to delete it immediately, accepting my fingers or my eyes had erred. But there's an image of the reunited Police that catches my eye. I decide, might as well check it out. Maybe my prayers for a new date--mine and I'm sure thousands of others--have been answered.

Sure enough. There's a new date added. It's about 10:10am. They go on sale....of course...at 10:00am this self same morning. Everyone's busy working away in the room. I've got my credit card number memorized. I can't believe it. The luck, the beauty, the timing, the richness of the moment. Fortunately, I was able to savor it at the same time my fingers correctly clicked and poked at the keyboard to request tickets.

YEAH!!! Well. Actually...YEAH!!! You see I really wanted to go all out and do the $250 seats. I'm not really a concert person. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I've paid to see a star in concert. Prince's 1996 tour I think was the last I paid to attend. I've seen a few folks since then, always as someone else's guest.

The last big concert I attended, which I begged to be taken to, was Erykah Bahdu. Disaster. I didn't take responsibility for my interest in seeing her back in 2002. The result was just bad. No need to go into details. I blamed the person who bought the horrid seats and invited his friends--who bought better seats--without even telling me until we were finding parking and I was already annoyed. Annoyed because, evidently, my insisting he take me, created a little resentment on his part. The way the evening started showed that pretty clearly. Not to be outdone, I called his resentment and raised him. Disaster would not be an overstatement.

Lesson learned. I really, really want to see this concert. I didn't need someone else to take me to see Erykah and I don't need someone else to spring for my seeing The Police. I'm gonna have the evening I want, not force it to be more than what it needs to be. I clicked best available seats and didn't designate $250. I got the $95 ones. Given the way the site keeps reminding the potential buyer that there are only two minutes to complete the transaction or these seats are gone, adios, no concert for you...I didn't want to take any chances and snatched up the $100 high rise nose bleeds.

Success. I check the seating after their purchased. Oh my, that high up? Crap. I settled. Why didn't I insist on the $250 seats.

And this is what I learned about me and my magical life. What I have to watch is always wanting more, more, more and better, better, better. I gotta remember to appreciate that my angels, the universe, God are always providing me what will work best. I can doubt it, but it doesn't make the truth into a lie.

Like the Gumbo that's cooking right now. I got a taste for it yesterday. I bought the gumbo seasoning. Helped, might I add, by a guy who seemed like he was in quite a rush when I initially waved a hand and asked for direction to the right aisle. But, I'm thinking 'cause of my expressing being appreciative, he took the time to check two different places on the same aisle, went above and beyond the expected by walking me over a couple more aisles so that I had the full range of gumbo seasoning options. He kept insisting that at the old store he used to work in, a bigger store, they had lots more choices, a better selection. Anywho. I found a good one. I felt a little bad, like I was letting him down when I told him I was satisfied with what he'd shown me, that I'd made a choice and he could go on without feeling he'd done anything less than what was perfect.

So I use it tonight. I cut up the veggies. I put in the sausage. I add a dash of this and a pinch of that, all from that intuitive place. I sample. It is delicious. Ok. Actually, it reminded me of the phrase, "So good, it'll make you want to slap your mama." I'd never slap my mama, mind you. Who wants to get a beat down? But I did wish someone were here that I could at least pop upside the head and say "You gotta taste this!"

But the Gumbo story doesn't end there. And not just 'cause I like typing. It was so good...I had to mess with it. Then I had to fix my messing with it. It's still really, really good. It'll satisfy me. I just wish I'd have stopped when I felt like slapping somebody.

I've got to watch my need to tamper with perfection. My inability to recognize, accept, appreciate that when it feels right...it is. The end. "Better" isn't the same as "perfect." I'm learning.

I guess you already know I logged back on to order $250 tickets. Surely I can sell the $95 ones later. Or, maybe take a couple of appreciative friends who won't mind my waving to them from the floor. Not that I'm rich, mind you. Just...The Police. Reunion. Sure, they might re-unite for several more years, but what if they don't?

This time, I'm at least not so pressed by the ticking clock not to check the location of the seats before I drop the cash that was really ment to go towward a new living room on a single night of pleasure, especially when I already had seats that turned out to be, though high up, a nice eyeline to the stage. Thank God I checked. Sure, they were on the floor--way, way, way at the back of the floor.

Oh. "Best available" means what it says. And, oh, so "most expensive" is not synonymous with "best available."

My timing was perfect in the first place. My erroneous clicks and deliberate choices had been magical. And I was gonna mess around and mess it up.

Seeking "better" can really mess up a truly good thing. I'm learning. Better usually turns out to be less than perfect...at least when your homebase is magic.