Concerts, Then and Now

My husband and I went to the Bryan Adams concert last Wednesday.  Our fake wedding anniversary was Thursday, so we decided that going to an 80’s concert totally was an appropriate way to celebrate our 26^th fake anniversary, and since it was our fake anniversary, it really didn’t matter that we were commemorating it a day early.  Actually dates have actually never been that significant for my family, both for my extended family of birth and our little immediate family circle of 4.  Growing up, my Mom found it much more convenient to just group family events together with traditional holidays; that way paper plates and disposable cutlery could be economized.  And socializing.  And housework.  Not that disposable plates, cutlery and cups were reserved for these special occasions; we often resorted to this back-up when we ran out of clean dishes.  I became an expert at eating cereal out of a solo cup with a flimsy plastic spoon.  Toby Keith’s tribute song was a bit curious to me, as since it was really a most utilitarian part of my childhood, I had not thought of giving the Red Solo Cup special social status.  It is a little startling when I hear it.  Catchy song though, so I can’t help but sing along and think of all the uses that Toby apparently didn’t know about, or were perhaps too odd to put in a song.  The solo cup in my life was rather like duct tape.  Uses only limited by your imagination.  But I digress.

I will explain the whole fake anniversary thing later, but what really struck me about the occasion was the differences that time and age have wrought in getting ready for a concert. 

Me getting ready for a concert…

Then:    Plan ahead to be off work early that day so I have time to get ready.

Now:     Make time to take a nap the afternoon of the concert.

Then:    Go through my entire closet twice in deciding what to wear.  Finally decide on original outfit, which involves fuscia-pink and black.

Now:     Select that new blouse I’ll never be able to wear anywhere else because we never go anywhere, and the most comfortable jeans I own. Daughter comes in to fuss with my outfit, because apparently owning clothes that you could totally still wear when you are 90 are not appropriate for a rock concert.  I just want to be comfy.  My blouse is black, the throw/jacket thing my daughter insists I should wear over top instead of my black jacket (because apparently, if you can wear it to a job interview, it also does not qualify as good concert apparel), is fuscia-pink, because that colour is really in now.  The irony makes me laugh.

Then:    Spend at least an hour curling my hair with the curling iron balanced precariously on the edge our little sink, along with my cigarette and at-least-second wine cooler or glass of Strawberry Angel, while listening to music as loud as the neighbors will tolerate.

Now:     Fluff my hair, add style goo so it will stay fluffy looking.

Then:    At least 20 minutes on makeup.  It may have been more, as I recall, the eye makeup alone took 20 minutes.

Now:     10 minutes on makeup, half of which is borrowed from my daughters.  I love that fuscia-pink lipstick is still in now.  I still have the same tube I’ve had since the 80’s, but I can’t find it, so I use the new one I bought at the drug store last month.  Surveying the finished product, I go to wipe what I think is a stray cat hair off of my face.  Only it doesn’t move.  I use my thumbnail and finger, but it is stuck fast.  Closer examination reveals that this is actually a chin hair long enough to now have curled like curling ribbon on a package.  I stop to tweeze my face. Thank you peri-menopause.

Then:    Do the pantyhose dance while squishing myself into tummy control hose.

Now:     Forget it, I just want to be comfy.   I’m wearing Mom underwear and no socks.

Then:    Pull slightly damp jeans on (the panty hose help), then carefully lay flat on the bed and use a pair of pliers to zip-up the way-too-tight jeans.  Sort of roll off the bed and manoeuver into a standing position.

Now:     My most comfy non-Mom-looking jeans. They have spandex in them so they stretch to all my curves, especially that rolly one where my stomach used to be.

Then:    Add earrings.  Big hoops or those shiney metal-fabricky ones that fold like a little chain-mail hanky.  Add as many bangle bracelets as possible.

Now:     Search through all of my flashy earrings that I never wear anymore, decide I look ridiculous in all of them and select plain dangly ones.

Then:    Select the highest spike heels I own.  Actually being able to walk is optional.

Now:     I want sensible footwear that I can navigate stadium stairs with.  My daughter talks me out of wearing my gardening sandals.  I am wearing my really hip black boots with a flat motorcycle heel.  The best part of my awesome, calf-high boots is covered by the legs of my jeans, which I refuse to tuck in because I will look like a pirate.  Or a Russian.  Perhaps a Russian pirate.

Then:    Copious amounts of Opium perfume.

Now:     White Tea & Fig body spray

Voila, ready to go!

Then:    Husband, who has had all this time to get ready himself, only just now decides to do so after I repeatedly asked him while I was getting ready if he was ready to go, and he assures me…”oh yeah, just need to put my shoes on”.  I sort of stand around the house dancing to my music and drinking wine while I wait because there is no way I can sit down in these jeans yet.

Now:     Husband calls 30mins before we have to leave to assure me he did in fact leave work and is stuck in traffic on the way home.  We leave as soon as he gets home; he doesn’t bother to change and is wearing his everyday work attire – a dress shirt and jeans. He did stop and take his hearing aids out, so the concert won’t be too loud.

Then:    Arrive at concert; cling to husband’s arm as I teeter on treacherous stadium stairs up to our seats.  Signs everywhere advising that photographs/recording devices are prohibited!  All the dire consequences are listed.

Now:     Enter concert venue, the only signs posted advise that we are not allowed to bring in our own alcohol; we must purchase theirs.

Then:    Before concert begins, there are the usual air-filled giant balls that people are bouncing in the air around the stadium.  The mood is excited anticipation.  The age of the crowd is mostly teenagers-20’s, with a few old die-hard rockers thrown into the mix.  Girls are dressed as slutty as possible.  Boys look appropriately put-upon for being dragged to the concert by their girlfriends.  People are chain smoking and drinking.

Now:     On stage is a large screen projecting the twitter feed conversations about the impending concert and Bryan Adams in general.  The mood is relaxed.  The age of the crowd is mostly 40-50, who are dressed very casually, in fact I feel overdressed.  There are entire families, with parents who have brought their older (and some younger) children along.  The guys actually look happy to be there.  There don’t appear to be any teenagers there who didn’t come with a parent. People are having conversations both real and virtual.  Also staring at their iPhones, texting and tweeting.  Did you know there is actually a website that tells you the set-list for the concert you’re about to see?  Where is the fun in that?

Then:    Concert begins with opening act.  Most people are waayy too cool to take their seats before the main performance, so are milling around the concourse.  Not me.  I think it is very rude, and take a polite interest in the struggling opening act out of sheer support-the-underdog-no-matter-what mentality.

Now:     Main act now has too many songs to also have an opening act.  At least that is the excuse he gives…I think maybe it is just cheaper/easier not to have one.  I’ll bet there were a lot of people taken by surprise to have the main act open for themselves.  I think it is marvelous.  I no longer have to listen politely to a band I don’t really want to see.

Then:    The opening act ends and the house lights come on again.  Now is the time to teeter down the bathroom to empty nuisance bladder and get more drinks to refill it again before the main act.   Teeter back to seat.

Now:     I nurse my drink (a diet Coke) so I won’t have to go to the washroom until the concert is over.  It’s such a pain going down all those stairs.  We had deliberately bought the bottles of diet Coke, thinking being able to replace the cap as we were nursing our pops would be handy.  After purchasing said bottles, we were informed that we would have to pour them into cups.  Apparently security had concerns about the bottles being used to make Moltov Cocktails.  Really?  Using plastic bottles?  At a Bryan Adams concert?  It’s a weird new world.

Then:    Lights go out for main act.  30 seconds later the stadium is filled with the smell of pot.  The music is loud and we love it!

Now:     The main act comes on and we politely cheer.  It takes a while to warm up a middle-aged, Canadian audience.  Once we get going though, it is a good time.  It seems like everyone is using their cell phones to take photos and record the concert.  They are also tweeting, texting and using their Shazam* apps to identify what song is playing.  (Really?  If you don’t know the songs, why are you here?). *Note: this is not the Shazam of my childhood TV memories, which involved an otherwise normal teenage boy who turned into an ancient superhero when he shouted Shazam!  There was lightening and everything.

Then:    Band plays a ballad and everyone holds up their lit Bic and Zippo lighters, burning our fingers and swaying to the music.

Now:     Band plays a ballad and everyone holds up their glowing cell phones.  I feel like I have landed in the wrong universe somehow.  There are a few who are holding up their flaming lighters.  Thank heavens for those hold-out smokers who are able to entirely disregard those grisly scare ads on the cigarette packages.  Yes, you will die sooner, but you do look really cool.  And you take me back to old times.  Thank you.  Bryan Adams thinks the glowing cell phones starlight effect is really cool and asks someone to send him a picture of it.  Just as the last song is being played, an enthusiastic cell-phone waiver behind us loses control of her phone.  It flies out of her hand and hits my husband in the back of his head.

The concert ends, and my husband, who lost 30% of his hearing during his operational tour in Afghanistan, comments that it didn’t seem as loud as usual.  I remind him that he took out his hearing aids…

Holy O'Dinah, there is a lot of introspection required to set up a profile for a blog or twitter account.  I've been a Mom for 23 and a half years, when was the last time I examined my interests?  Oh probably about 25 years ago.  I will have to think about this more and finish.  Megan, don't judge my blog, also, it does not require fact-checking, IT IS MY LIFE!!!  I am the expert, thank you very much.  Sassy child.