If you didn’t just have an Abba moment, we probably can’t be friends.
I’m kidding. I love having friends who don’t have Abba moments. It makes it so much more interesting when I break into “Dancing Queen” mid-conversation because something they said reminded me of being “young and sweet, only 17, oh yeah.”
I’ll stop with the Abba now. It’s considered cruel and unusual punishment in four states — maybe all of them, I’m not sure, because I made the last part up.
George has been used to my outbursts for so long, he even participates in them sometimes. We’ll be mid-conversation about my new boots giving me a blister and, without fail, we both start singing, “Lemme go oooonnn, like a blister in the sun!” And everyone at Arby’s looks at us like we’re weird, when all we’re doing is talking about a blister. Gah.
Of course, riding hundreds of thousands of miles together has contributed to our musical repertoire considerably. Hours and hours of silence to kill calls for music, but even the favorite playlist gets old after the tenth time. George introduced me to all kinds of music when he was a rock-n-roll photographer, and drug me, kicking and screaming, from listening mostly to AM Gold from the years 1968-1978 to a much wider taste and appreciation for music.
