After the show, I waited outside the stage door with my friend, Roz. For about twenty minutes, with perhaps a dozen others, we waited. Then, the door popped open and a stagehand said, “Elton says you can come in now,” ushering us into the bowels of the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane. Thirty-five years. Damn. Still the best birthday ever. (And two days later, we met again. And on his last night in London, he dedicated “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word” to “Shavawn. She’s from America and she’s been here for several shows.”) The point is, I made something that others deemed impossible, happen. I. Did. That. … More Believe