Today is a day I could easily be snarky. Rob and I awoke at 5:30 AM and dragged ourselves over to Central Park to wait in line for Twelfth Night tickets. For the past four and a half hours, I have been trying to get comfortable on concrete and deflect the hundreds of insects that have designated me their special prowling territory.

Despite this--because of this--I am in a delightful mood.

At one point, I awoke from a light doze and turned around to see the woman behind us also sleeping. She wore a tan cap with the words "Life is good" embroidered in tiny letters on the brim. An understated understatement. Life is good.

Now pardon me while I walk Goblin and return to the line.

Later…

The lengthening line transformed into a New York bazaar in my absence. A grumpy flautist on Rollerblades serenaded the assembly with the theme from Star Wars and selected hits from Celene Dion; a mime dressed in white distributed vellum-wrapped booklets entitled "Verse from Le Mime"; the ringmaster, an officious employee of the theater, worked the queue with her policy on saving places.

Hundreds of people showed up, and I congratulated Rob for getting us there first. He said that this was my introduction to his life-long obsessive habit of arriving early to wait in lines. He also said that I could blog about the fact that he sleeps with a towel on his head, but I will save that juicy tidbit for another day.