The weekend started off like any other. We were running late, as usual; the Highlands were over-crowded, as usual; we were tired after a long week, as usual. Important guests were arriving, dodging the affects of the hurricane with a road trip to our fair city. We met for dinner, for drinks, for good conversation. Topics from blogging to car washes were pontificated, discussed in a familiar way that made the fact that some were meeting in person for the first time seem surprising. Kindred spirits, we were.

Like-minded people, souls, personalities are a blessing of sorts. Underneath different backgrounds lies commonalities — a favorite, somewhat obscure song that would lend accompaniment to a wedding’s first dance, a love of literature, amusement at the same joke. How we find our friends, often in unlikely places, unlikely packages, is almost as interesting as the friendships themselves.

True to form, fun was had. Debauchery ensued as planned. We ate with gusto, we drank with vigor, we listened to the band with rapt appreciation and a tune in our hearts. And we played the tambourine like it was nobody’s business.

If only we didn’t have to sacrifice an intact ulna (read: armbone) to do so.