Dave Matthews Always Leaves Me Breathless

And while I tried to shrug it off, I finally looked up, and it was Dave. Big, booming, beautiful Dave. He smiled. He even said hello.

I spent the last seven years in Virginia, a heart's beat off the Appalachian Trail, where "Dave Stories" are standard fare. I'd hear a friend let on in a casual tone that her best friend from elementary school just happened to be related to Dave Matthews, and so she'd seen him on many occasions; I'd listen to people debating where, exactly, his hometown is—is he a South African or an Appalachian? I'd get reports from carpenter friends who'd just done work on his house or studio or something like that. And even though I am a huge fan of Dave's (it comes with the territory), I thought my friends were giant fools.

I'd had run-ins with famous people lots of times, and I seriously thought I had a decent grip on reality versus hype. "Give the man the space he deserves," I'd think to my (righteous) self. "He's local; he's got to have a life of some kind."

Besides murmuring to myself, though, did I mention that I sing Dave Matthews's songs? That I dance to them? Well, I totally do. Now, listen: I don't have that lithe Virginian gait, that Sissy Spacek quality that generally qualifies a girl to shuffle around like a hippie with ease and poise, but that doesn't stop me. It's not hard, believe me. A couple of strums from his magical, manly fingers and you're instantly whisked to this faraway place of fireflies and twilight and perpetual buzz. Really.

So. I sang Dave's songs. I danced to his music. But I honestly thought I was above getting star-struck...until last spring.

I was coming out of this terrible season of general pissed-offedness at life when I found myself in the Whole Foods parking lot, walking toward the door. For whatever reason, my sappy side pulled my head back toward these toddlers who were parading their way inside: muddy, messy blondies, marching pinky-to-pinky alongside an adult male. Even though I'd been in an angry mood, like I mentioned, I couldn't help myself and totally swooned at the kids like the twenty-something my-biological-clock-is-ticking-but-I'm totally-in-denial-about-wanting-children person I am.

Suddenly I felt the father figure (whose face I'd been avoiding—another standard behavior for a girl my age) looking at me. And while I tried to shrug it off, I finally looked up, and it was Dave. Big, booming, beautiful Dave. He smiled. He even said hello.

I ran inside and hid in the cereal aisle. But even though I was trying to stay hidden and catch my breath, one of his kids managed to cut a corner too quickly and stepped on my toe. He came over again and offered n apology in his dreamy accent, but all I could do was stare at my shoes.

And I'm still trying to catch my breath.


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