Ollie Ollie In Free

Friday evening. Frazzled from a hard week. Second-guessing my decision to go to an outdoor Bonnie Raitt concert, even if it was with my dear friend, Sarah Lee. Yes, Sarah Lee. And ‘nobody doesn’t like her.’

The heels of my cowboy boots wore off on the two-mile trek from our parking space to the entrance. There, Bubba security guard asked me to open my suede jacket to “search” for illegal substances.  

His eyes glazed over. 

Ahhh. Joints passed around. These days, about all Sarah and I pass are each other as we pick up our children from school. We used to be the ones partying. Now, we wear out our arms, fanning away smoke with carpel-tunneled wrists. We used to be the ones dancing in the aisles. Now, we nearly go into cardiac arrest when drunken college kids start dancing in front of us, blocking our view.  

 WE HAD BECOME OUR MOTHERS! 

 But age had nothing to do with the near-death experience from someone passing incredibly foul gas, repeatedly. That did it. I threw in the towel. 

“Uncle. Times. I give up. Ollie-Ollie-in-free.” 

I had outgrown the rock concert experience.  I’d crossed over to the other side, from young and free to, well . . . not. 

My “endless summer” had ended.

Wait. Still a glimmer of hope. The next day was my birthday. On my way home from work, I bought a fifth of Crown Royal and was carded. Who cares if it was probably for the last time? I went home and downed shots with Tony.    

There we were, jumping on my daughter’s bed, sticking glow-in-the-dark stars and planets on her ceiling, while rocking to Bob Dylan’s 30th Anniversary CD.  

Hey, I’m not my mother—yet.

25 years later.

The Opry House. Jackson Browne row six. He’s worth the splurge! 

We had the 4-seat wooden bench to ourselves for a bit, until a heavy-set couple came in late, boozed up. Cheap cowprint cowboy boots. Spiked heels. Carrying a large clear plastic glass, maybe vodka. With a slice of lime. During intermission she turned to me. Puffy face with straight, fine hairs scattered on her cheeks.

“Have you ever been here? It sure is nice,” she giggled. “I din’t know it’d be this n-i-i-i-ce.”  

During the show, she kept a’stompin that damn boot, spraying my feet with her maybe vodka, having spilled most of it on the floor.

I was wearing my orthopedic but stylish enough gold metallic Kenkoh flip-flops. I got them at The Happy Feet store. The magic rubber nubs massage the bottom of my feet, now sticky.

   I guess I am my mother.