Last week, I took myself to a concert. I sat on a stool at the back of the room, drank a beer and chatted meaningless chatter with really drunk strangers before the show. The music was amazing (acoustic Matisyahu, if you are interested) and I often found myself with closed eyes taking it all in.
As the night went on and people became more drunk, I realized that I was not in the safe little bubble of my life. There were cat calls too loud when one paid $30 for the ticket. There were the people who were swaying, not because of the music, but because that last beer put them over the top drunk. Then, there was the short guy who the tall women let go in front of them. Just so happens he ended up right behind me and I could feel his small-man hot-breath on the back of my neck, almost damp from the beer I am sure he had to show I.D. for. That was the last straw. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and tried to drown out all the debauchery around me. I looked like a fool, but so did everyone else so I don’t think they noticed.
For a while, I was able to really focus on the music. The it was 10 p.m. and he still wasn’t done and I started to wonder if I might fall asleep on the fifteen minute drive home. I stuck it out for a terrific encore and then bolted for the door as soon as the house lights came on.
I was really glad I went. But the next morning, when my boy and I were dancing to Matisyahu’s albums in our living room, I realized that there is no where else I would rather be.