An open letter to the lovely Ms. Yamagata

Dear Rachael,

I go to bed at 8.

That might be hard for someone who performs well into the night and then drives past Kansas cornfields at 3 a.m. to fathom, but it's true. I'm a 30-year-old trapped in an 8-year-old's sleep schedule, and I get anxious when the clock ticks past bedtime and I'm not yet clad in my PJ's.

This anxiety gets especially high when I'm out of the house past bedtime, i.e. not near the safe and comfort of my bed and its promised 10 hours of sleep.

Now:

A) I might sleep too much.
B) I'm talking to my therapist about my anxiety issues. He did let me know that I'm not crazy, so we're making progress.

Last night you took the stage at 10, at the Teragram Ballroom, which my boyfriend dubbed an "adorable" venue.

And I screamed for you, when I saw that familiar long black hair.

***

You sang all my favorites: Dealbreaker, Worn Me Down (my boy toy's fave of the night), my all time ballad of yours: You Won't Let Me.

You took us, your crowd, through your new hits, and we loved them without trying.

When the chords of Be Be Your Love rang out on your keyboard, I thought, "This is the song that brought me to Rachael," remembering the summer that I read The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and then saw the movie and heard your voice when Lena raced after Kostos to tell him on the ferry boat that she loved him.

I remembered and I was grateful.

That book, that movie, your voice, led me to Lincoln Hall, where my bestie and I sipped cocktails and fell in love with your charming persona.

It led me to the Fonda Theatre, where -- shh -- I was really there to see you more than I was to see Josh Radin.

And it brought me to Teragram, where faux moons hung above us and my man and I swayed together to your songs -- songs that break us open and fill us with beautiful, musical balm.

***

Last night, as we walked toward the taped off line to get our wristbands, I joked with my friends that it was way past my bedtime.

It was.

It was 9 o' clock.

But as we listened to your opener, the lovely My Name is You, there was no twinging anxiety reminding me that Max (cat) was waiting for me at home.

I savored their harmonies, in giddy anticipation of you, the way one feels on Christmas Eve -- happy, excited, knowing there's more fun still to come.

During your set, I felt I could stay wrapped up in the lights and your voice and your band's great aura for hours on end.

A Rachael show is not something to rush through.

Your concerts are my happy place.

Last night, I went to bed after midnight.

And I didn't care.

Rachael, we love you. I hope I don't sound like a crazed fan, but rather like one who knows a special thing when she hears it.

Thanks for staying up past 8, waiting for us Angelenos to push through traffic and make it to the edge of your stage, ready for your voice to take us away.

Thank you for singing, for strumming, for writing, for keying. Thank you for being you.

God bless you. I hope you find lasting love and happiness in your life, because you -- I think we all agree -- deserve it.

Signed,
Not the least bit tired