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Under bright, sunny skies on Saturday afternoon, I jumped in my truck and headed towards Lake Chatuge. I’ll do you some good,” he said, putting his hand of friendship on my shoulder in solidarity.Īnd that’s exactly what I did. “You should just come up to the lake with us tomorrow. I told him about bailing on Maryland, the date falling through, and how I was feeling burned out and in need of respite. Like all dear friends in one’s existence, he could sense something was not right in my attitude and demeanor. I was going to order the finest steak they had and I was going to eat it with gusto.Ĭhowing down on a New York strip steak, the owner/executive chef of the restaurant emerged from the kitchen and sat down next to me at the bar counter.
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So, being all dressed up with nowhere to go, I decided to wander my favorite restaurant in town. She got caught up doing some work and such. It was decided to meet up in an hour at a quiet spot just off Main Street.Īn hour later, as I readied myself to head over to the quiet spot, she messaged back and said she had to raincheck. She wanted to come to Waynesville for a drink. It was this cute girl I’d been talking to sporadically, where it had been cat and mouse to figure out a time in our mutually busy lives to meet for an adult beverage. Standing on the sidewalk, I leaned onto the open garage door window of Sauced in downtown…īy Friday afternoon, I had planned to venture to Asheville for some shenanigans, but I got a message at the last minute. I’m a workaholic who loves what they do, which is the worst kind, because you’ll burn yourself out way before you even realize what you’ve done to your physical self, let alone your sanity. Typing and sending that message was harder than I could have imagined, seeing as I’m a workaholic who bounces between the journalism world and the music industry, both realms of organized chaos that thrive in the blurred boundaries of work and play. So, I sat down at my desk and wrote an email to the organizers, one stating that I would have to, respectfully, decline the invitation to event. I can’t fathom an eight-hour drive up Interstate 81 to the panhandle just below the Mason-Dixon Line, all while this storm follows the entire length and direction of the route to the festival. I stood there and started to feel deflated, like this balloon that was popped by the needle of time and space. The unrelenting raindrops hit my truck parked in front of the apartment building. But, with the heavy rainstorm overhead and pounding down on my humble abode, I stopped for a moment and walked out onto the porch.