So, yesterday, I was getting out all the layers. Finding the best coat to wear, digging out the gloves. I was going to my first World Series and was crazy excited. Jake went with Peter in 04, and Ally went with Peter in ’07, but I was a Sox World Series Series virgin, and I was about to get de-flowered. And then, and then, I got the unmistakable nausea that can only mean one thing: a fucking migraine. I have a long history with the headaches that make death seem like fun. I have been treated by specialists, done acupuncture and biofeedback. And truthfully, I have rid myself of them for the most part, but once in a while I still get a whopper when the barometric pressure goes up or down. And yesterday, that’s what happened, plus I have some pretty good congestion going on, so that probably didn’t help. Anyway, I took a Compazine and slept, and called it around 6:30: my layers would be blankets on the couch. And the Fenway frank my mouth was watering for, would be frozen gluten free waffles (I know that sounds sad, but I actually love them).

Anwyay, our friend Charlie got lucky and got to go to the World Series. I watched the game thinking how happy I was not to be there with the noise and lights, because that’s how much my head hurt. Of course, the other part of me was thinking how shitty it was that I didn’t get to be there. But through the magic of group texting, Peter, Ally and even Barcelona Jake and I all watched together. I fell asleep before Papi hit his home run, and woke to the news that the Sox killed it.

As Mary Chapin Carpenter says, “Sometimes you’re the Louisville slugger, sometimes you’re the ball.” Last night I was the ball. Happy for all those Sox fans that got to be there. And for Boston– we love to win. And last night we did, despite the fact that I didn’t.