...in which I take the red pill and see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

(I've been looking at a virtual blank page for this blog entry for way too long, trying to figure out where it begins, where it ends, and how to turn a blur into words.  Rather than continue to psych myself out of it, I'm just going to mentally regurgitate, and hope it makes sense.  I thank you in advance for your patience, dear reader.)

 We quickly hopped back to our shoebox to change into formal wear before the show, and found ourselves tight on time.  A look at the clock showed that we either had to leave right then to get in line, or risk finding ourselves out of panty-throwing range -- and who really wants to get all dressed up and then not be able to throw some underwear at people on a stage?  So I decided to skip makeup to get us out the door 10 minutes faster.  I mean, really -- why would anyone be looking at me anyway?  (HA!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

Chronologically displaced side note:  the night before, I think as we were falling asleep, I'd reminded Nick of the Monarch of the Seas competition, having been reminded by some sort of announcement at the sailaway party.  I was concerned about how he might react if by some remarkable chance it ended up being him.  Our conversation went something like this:

A:  In the exceptionally unlikely event that your name is called tomorrow, you need to take a deep breath, suck it up,and not freak out.


N:  What the fuck -- can't I just renounce the title?

A:   Nope.  Besides, its not going to happen -- the odds are what?  250-1 against you.  Hell, 125-1 against either of us.  (HA!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

N:   What if your name is called?

A:  HA!  HAHAHAHAHAHA!

So we zoom out of the shoebox and jump in line outside the theater -- the doors open a few minutes later, and we grab seats stage left (is stage port actually just starboard?), 5 or 6 rows back.  At this point, I am concerned once again about panty-throwing range, and the ability of my man to frisbee a pair of squirrel underpants on a cardboard squirrel 50 feet without winging someone in front of us in the back of head, or taking Stormofpaulandstorm out at the knees.  Ah here are the morning announcements, cool.

Gaming room hours, got it - reminder of the formal tonight, awesome - new dining room procedures, noted -  Monarch of the Seas is named, applause...why is Nick staring at me?   Why is Nick poking me in the side?  What the hell did Paulofpaulandstorm just say?  (mental instant replay engaged -- its not just for football refereeing anymore!)

Oh shit.

Ok, breathe.

Ok, now stand up and wave, then sit back down and maybe they'll sense your minor panic and let you stay here.

Yeah...that's not going to work.  Let me try to get on stage without falling, in the words of Helen Mirren, ass over tit.

Wait!  This will put me in prime underpants position, let me grab them from Nick and then resume my non-regal stumble to the stage.

The concert itself has been documented aplenty across the interwebs -- there's not much I can add to that awesome experience, other than my own bewilderment at my sudden change of location.  I think my wish to someday be front row for a Paul and Storm show has officially been overfulfilled -- really, you haven't lived til you've experienced the magic from a 30 degree angle behind.  (upon rereading this was unintentionally filthy, and as such it must stay)    Ten-Finger Johnny -- yes please!  Wil, thank you for being so captivating as to allow me to forget my own awkwardness at being perched upon the throne.  Thank you to the folks front row stage right who put my precious squirrel underpants back on the stage when I overthrew my target.  Thank you, all of you, for not screaming at me to speed it up when I was in my own headspace and meandering out of the theater, not fully realizing I was keeping the whole load of you from going to dinner.

I left the theater and ducked into the empty piano bar, where Nick immediately found me.  Somehow Maria and Taylor found us shortly after that.   Now, on Sunday night when the assigned seating was in effect, Nick and I found ourselves at a 4-top without tablemates. We were a little disappointed and felt highly conspicuous -- like we were somehow either antisocial, or unworthy of table mates.  The thought of going back to our lonely table in my new regalia was only going to intensify my concern that people would think we were unable to play nicely with others or just plain snobby.  "Pleasepleaseplease,"  I begged the Fishers, "can we eat with you guys tonight?  I just want to have a normal dinner with folks who aren't trying to crawl up my ass, and who will treat me just like anyone else."

And lo, the Queen's Guard of Portland, Decatur, and Ann Arbor was born.  Maria, Taylor, Mindy, Schatzer, Annie, Chris, Jeff, and Famous Tracy -- you guys took us in, let us be goofy, inappropriate, and vulgar, warded off some of the akwardness, and shared your table, your wine, and your warmth every night.   We could not have lucked into a greater group of friends, and so many of the moments that absolutely made the week were in your company. 

Yippie-ki-yay, motherfuckers.