Oh! What a beautiful mornin'!

I've got The Happies. It's amazing how a night on the town with friends — swapping wardrobes, swigging High Life — can result in a most infectious disease. But this isn't about our drink-induced tomfoolery. This is about how life is composed of silver linings — in this case, a few extraordinary girls and our contagious Happies.

Surprisingly, it wasn't "shorty fire burning" on the dace floor that The Happies consumed me. It wasn't marching through the Frontier Airlines tunnel belting "Newsies" at 3 AM either. It wasn't even as we crowded around a bag of chips and (insufficient) guac, recapping the night and getting The Dizzies. No, it was early the next morning, maybe 7:00, that The Happies started setting up shop. I was sleeping snugly next to Erin in a twin-sized bed (such is the nature of the proverbial Crash Pad) when the sun peeked in through the canvas curtains. I moved from sleep to barely-awake and became aware of not only the sun, but that my blankets were twisted, my mouth was the Sahara, and "did I brush my teeth after last night's guac?" All this I felt, but my eyes were blind — scared to face the weakly sunlit apartment. So my ears switched on. Nothing but quiet, sleepy breathing from my three amigas. ("No snorers," I thought.) When from outside, there came a most glorious sound:

"Oh! What a beautiful mornin'!
Oh! What a beautiful day!
I've got a beautiful feeling
Everything's going my way!"

The voice was strong, fearless, joyful — and slightly out of tune. It resounded, amplified by the surrounding stone buildings. Excitement sprung up inside me, propelling me from sleep to sitting — eyes popped open, curtains thrust apart. Of course, you can't see the street from this studio apartment, so my ears sketched a picture: young man, perhaps still intoxicated. Arms splayed. Face turned sun-ward. Shameless. Brazen. With an acute knowledge of Rogers and Hammerstein and a severe case of The Happies. He sang the chorus twice. As the voice faded and sounds of Milwaukee in the morning took center stage, my senses had enough — I drifted back to sleep.

An hour-or-so later the girls stirred, and myself by extension. Erin sat up, pushing her sleep-mask onto her forehead. Caitlin peeled herself off the couch and stumbled to the kitchen sink for a tall glass of water. Colleen yawned, adjusted her sleeping bag, and flopped back onto her pillow, complaining of "the spins." What time is it? Is it hot outside? It's a sauna in here. How did we eat so much last night? Whatever. Anyone hungry?

"Did anyone hear Gordon MacRae this morning?," I asked. Caitlin had. The others asked what happened. We explained.

"He probs got laid last night," one of them said.
"Or maybe he's in love," said another.
"Yeah, maybe he found The One."

It was barely up for debate and we all agreed — love. It had to be love. As we reached our quick conclusion and I youtubed the song to our eardrums' delight, I felt an astounding, all-encompassing peace as so rarely fills me these days. There's always something. Some trial. Some tribulation. Something off. Something imperfect. But this moment was the silverest of linings. As Gordon's voice filled the studio apartment, I mused that only through pure, unbridled love for each other could four friends surmise that love (not lust, liquor, or lawlessness — as so often clouds our skies) was at the heart of one fellow's song. In that moment, I got The Happies. We all did. I hope they never find a cure.