This weekend I went to Coachella. I had a basic ticket for Sunday, so that I could see Madonna and Bloc Party play, and I had a place to stay. Now all that I asked of my higher power was that I would have a nice bed to sleep in and the possible chance of VIP access. That first night, my friend and I ended up with a country club house to ourselves and intense relaxation. We laid out on deck chairs at two a.m under the star-studded desert sky. A golf course lay sprawling before us, and the yellow sliver moon hung low. There was no sign of L.A. in sight, and I would be seeing Madonna soon. I mean, really. We were on the road to perfection.

The next twenty-four hours brought a different air to the weekend. More people arrived. Our beds were usurped. The food we had bought was devoured with no sense of gratitude. Some lame chick made an unnecessary gay comment, which I overlooked, until she proceeded to follow it up with a blatant racial slur. And horny straight boys were stumbling in at three a.m., obviously hoping to hook up with the aforementioned lame girl, only to be loudly turned away. Suddenly, perfection had given over to annoyance with very little hope for salvaging. Of course, I knew not to take it all so seriously, as well as that sleeping on a couch is by far NOT the worst thing that can happen in one's life. Still, this was not the Coachella weekend I had hoped for. I mean, really. I eventually drifted off to my few hours of sleep and prayed for a better day.

Let me just tell you. Prayer works.

The next day, I was groggy and just wanted to get some breakfast and some Starbucks. My friend and I got into the car, and I dragged him around in the ninety-five degree heat looking for a Denny's that I had obviously halucinated in a mirage the night before. We didn't know where we were. We were both sleep-deprived and now bickering over everything. For about a total of five minutes, we just stopped talking. I sort of just wanted to go home. My faith for a better day had flown out the window to be forever stranded on the hot La Quinta roadside. Britney's "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" came on the speakers, so I turned it up. Loud. Out of the corner of my mouth I said to my friend, "This song is how I feel right now." He laughed, which built into larger laughter for us both. We had lost it so much, we just had to give in. We sang together at the top of our lungs. I mean, really. It was like a scene from Crossroads.

You see, it was in that moment that I accepted the reality of my weekend thus far, and I decided to just let go. So we weren't gonna be VIP according to the world of Coachella. And yes, we had spent the night on a couch, and my one friend without a blanket. But I am sure somewhere someone had far worse off problems than us, so it all seemed irrelevant to me. And at least we still had our sense of humor that had obviously gotten us through so many situations before this, and we still had our friendship. We were gonna go to Coachella and have the best damn time that we could. We made one last stop into a Starbucks and dove into some soy lattes. It was right then that a phone call came in and everything changed.

The next few hours were a serendipitous blur that ended in us being ten feet away from Madonna as she went into an amazing festival set. We had run into this friend at Starbucks who helped us get these "main stage" passes. They allowed us access to everywhere at Coachella. At the show, I was able to see Bloc Party perform from the side of the stage! And we were able to walk through the back of the event, which let us avoid all the crowds if we wanted. It was all way beyond VIP. I mean, we were pretty much rock stars. And the best part was that after a few moments of possible "no entry" from security and some extreme faith on our parts, it allowed us this amazing access to Madonna's performance, which just made the whole experience so intensely personal. I mean, really. We were ten feet away from her. It was like my internal ten year old's wish come true, and it made everything else completely worthwhile.

I am constantly reminded in life that the road to perfection is never smooth. It is full of bumps and twists and lame girls with no social tact. And sure, my "Madonna at Coachella" story is not the end of my road. There will hopefully be many more "Madonna at Coachella" moments along my personal road to perfection. And with that, my idea of what perfection is will certainly change with time as well. But this weekend has affirmed a few things for me which I already knew, but will now hold onto more strongly. For one, never give up on faith. Even if the outcome is not what you wanted, eventually there is reward. Always make sure to have a sense of humor. It may take a moment to kick in, but when it does, it may very well be the only way out of a shitty situation. And finally, just let go. I mean, really. You can't know what's gonna happen, so why bother stressing.

And Madonna still kicks ass at forty-seven.

What about it?