Reliving My Youth

I don’t usually consider myself a vain person, but after seeing a few concerts of performers from my teenage years I’ve decided that I am aging very well!



Remember the bands from your youth? The ones who’s albums you saved up for and then played so loud your mother threatened to throw them in the trash? I remember, and not only was the music good, the men in the bands were so hot!



My disillusionment started when Steve and I were still married and he won front row seats to see Bad Company. I was so excited, I had the biggest crush on Paul Rogers, he was the subject of many of my teenage day dreams, and I was going to see him up close and personal. Maybe it wasn’t too late to run away with the band, just like I dreamed when I was 17.



The whole day I was all a twitter, what to wear, what to wear? I could not wait to see the man of my dreams. Bad Company took the stage, after a very disappointing set by Billy Squire, I think I screamed louder than anyone. I was 17 again, listening to the songs I loved, standing next to my husband, staring up at Paul Rogers.



Then something horrible happened. Paul Rogers took off his shirt. I know that doesn’t sound horrible and when I was 17 there was nothing I wanted more than to see Paul Rogers partially clad. Now, twenty years later his man boobs were huge! There should be a law against men with huge breasts taking off their shirts. All my girlhood fantasies were shattered in that one moment. I couldn’t even look at the stage and was not the least disappointed when Steve suggested we leave before the crowd.



Fast forward to the latest concert, Chicago. Again, I was very excited, not so much because I had a crush on any of those men but because it’s always fun to relive the good old days. I went to the concert with Joyce and her daughters, in a venue that allows you to bring in coolers of food and drink.



We waited outside the gate for several hours, all the seats are lawn seats so you get there early, wait in line so you can run and put your blanket as close to the stage as possible. Also, in those hours spend waiting for the gates to open, we consumed large quantities of alcohol, how could it not be a good night?



Finally, the gates open and we are speed walking ( they frown on running now) to get as close to the stage as possible. We got to about 40 feet from the stage and staked out our spot, blankets, sleeping bags, low lawn chairs and coolers everywhere. We were ready. Time to eat, after all the alcohol we needed food. The buffet we brought was huge, chicken salad, pastrami, fruit, turkey wraps, shrimp, brownies, cabbage salad. We gorged ourselves in the sun waiting for the show to begin.



The opening act was really good. Just two guys from Park City, one who could really sing and one who could really play the guitar. They were good, we were already swaying to the music. When they finished we ran to the bathroom and to take a smoke break before reliving our youth in the dusk.



Suddenly, the crowd is on its feet, the music starts playing, Chicago is taking the stage! We are jumping and yelling, then we notice- they are old! How did that happen? We are certainly not that old. Not only are they old, apparently they have forgotten how to dress themselves. It was frightening.



The trombone player had on really tight jeans that were pulled up really high, that was scary enough, but it didn’t stop there. He had on a button down shirt, with the sleeves ripped off, tucked into his too high, too tight pants, but wait- there’s more--- the front of the shirt was untucked, AND TIED ABOVE HIS PANTS! Like Daisy Duke with a package- it was terrifying!



The saxophone player, had tight black jeans on with a rather large “business” area- which Joyce pointed out to me, sounding a little afraid. I told her it was a sock and to just look away.



We were traumatized for the first half hour or so. It didn’t help that they were playing new stuff which was not at all what we wanted. Finally they remembered why we were all there and played the stuff we know and love. The crowd was on it’s feet, hands in the air, swaying to the music. Joyce and I danced like lunatics, much to the embarrassment of her daughters, but we did it anyway.



Wonderful concert, wonderful friends, great food. Now if I could just get the image of the way they were dressed out of my head, it would be a perfect memory!

Butt in the air- but I love you!

I’m not good under pressure, during crisis, in times of trouble. When people need me, really need me, I joke, I poke fun, I pretend it’s all good, nothing bad is really going to happen. Mary freaking Sunshine, as one of my sisters so sweetly called me.

It’s a defense mechanism. If I can laugh, and make someone else laugh, especially someone who is hurting or scared, then it will really be ok. After all, we couldn’t laugh if it wasn’t, right?

All my life I’ve hidden from what is wrong. If you stick your head in the sand, the bad stuff will sail right over you and never even notice you there with your butt in the air.











This only works when the bad stuff that is going to happen applies to someone else, when it applies to me, I stress, obsess, make myself sick. I try to think of the absolute worse thing that could happen, I actually start planning for that possibility so that when the doctor, or who ever says, oh wait, this is dyfocus of the blowhole, not cancer, then I’m hugely relieved, I even feel a little silly for getting everyone so worked up.

That’s what happened with my hysterectomy. They said the “C” word and I shut down. I knew I was gonna die, no need to have surgery, I’m gonna die anyway. Oh well, at least I’ll die with all my parts. Tree begged me to have the surgery, I stubbornly refused, until she wouldn’t stop crying and then I agreed. Still I made plans to die, I knew I was gonna die. I spoke with an attorney about the care and keeping of Mo after I was gone, where would she live, who would take care of her, who would get my insurance money, all of that, I had in place, because I was going to die.

Obviously, I didn’t die, and after the surgery I felt silly for being so melodramatic.

But when other people in my life are sick, I refuse to even say the words. When they thought Tree had thyroid cancer, our kids were five. She called crying, she didn’t want to die, she wanted to see Little Boy Ugly grow up, she didn’t want to lose her hair- and there it was, my in. I absolutely was not going to talk about dying, but I would talk about drawing her eyebrows on and painting daisies on her head. Hair didn’t matter, she was gonna live forever.

Then someone I love was diagnosed with MS. She called, crying, telling me all the things that could happen. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, she was gonna live forever. So I made her laugh.

“What exactly did the doctor say?”

“He said the results are back and I have MS.”

“He said MS? Not multiple sclerosis?”

“That’s what MS means.” She is trying to be patient with her thick headed friend.

“Well, maybe this time it means, masturbates selfishly, or manually stimulated, or …..”

After a couple seconds of stunned silence, she laughed, through the tears we both laughed. And it helped us get things in perspective.

Now someone else I love is sick. Lupus. Fortunately it is the mild skin type, it’s still a chronic disease and a life long diagnosis. So I do what I can. Buy lots of sunscreen, argue with her stubborn ass about staying out of the sun and tanning beds. And make lots of jokes, it’s what I do.

It’s out of love, although that can be hard to see, I love so strongly I can’t imagine life without these people so I stick my head in the sand and love them the best I can, by making fun of them.