The Grand Ole Opry

My parents and I went to the Opry on Friday night at the Ryman.

It was a first time for all of us.

We showed up early to tour the auditorium, and this cute little old man who had more country music smarts in his little pinkie than I’ve got in my whole body led us back stage and talked and talked and talked about the pictures on the wall and when they were made (this cracked my dad up to know end.  ”Hey Courtney, wanna have your picture made?”  ”Hey Dad, you’re from Montana, please don’t.”) and the people in them and what songs they were singing and who their parents were and who they were married to and maybe even when they died.

Those dressing rooms were tiny and hot and for the Ryman Auditorium, not as impressive as you would hope.

But I think I might have started crying in one of them.

Because Carrie Underwood was going to be there that night, and Martina McBride, and those are two women I really wouldn’t hate to be.  And I thought about them standing in one of these rooms putting on their pretty dresses (and after I saw Carrie, imagining her doing whatever she does to make her legs look so freaking shiny, besides the obvious 8 hour a day work outs, holy COW) and I thought… what do I have to change about myself to be them?  Not BE them, obviously, but to have these opportunities?  To get up on that stage and sing Make the World Go Away or He Is Good or maybe even Better Not Settle?  To be a part of history, to really meet the people behind the scenes… the people who know?

I’m not sure who I have to be… I’m not sure how to get there and … I just know it’s the only dream I’ve ever had.  Maybe I should figure it out.