Today was a pretty good Monday. I mean, the only legitimate problem I had is that when I woke up, I wasn’t Stevie Nicks.
Really, though, sometimes I pretend I am her when I wear my long black kimono, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
She’s mysterious. She’s hot. She’s a legend.
She’s everything I’m not, but a girl has to have goals, right?
Some days I might even get it in my head that I’m channeling the perfect balance of the cool edginess of Stevie and the Southern charm of Dolly Parton.
And then something usually happens to remind me I’m not even close to channeling either one, and that I’m pretty much an awkward cross between the pop singer who dresses up like a flamingo and Deb from Napoleon Dynamite.
Oh, and someone who dribbles salsa on her shirt and trips a lot.
Stevie’s voice is unmistakeable. It has rasp and sheer power, yet it is vulnerable. Raw but flawless.
I came across this video a couple of years ago and I might have watched it eleventy billion times since. The fact that this is a random backstage practice session while she’s getting her makeup done blows me away.
In my dreams, Stevie Nicks calls me up on stage to harmonize with her on Wild Heart (or anything) just like this video.
And then Lindsey Buckingham, naturally, writes a timeless song about me and how I am the perfect woman. (The salsa stains are verifiable proof.)
And usually that’s when I wake up and realize I’m still just a weirdo wannabe gypsy soul and a procratinating journalist who should be reading a 32-page earthquake study and writing five other stories before tomorrow’s deadline.
Stevie, man. Stevie.
I bet you can’t stop watching at eleventy billion.