I am free! Two weeks post-2nd vaccine. It has been 13 months since I have seen anyone other than Tony. Day after tomorrow, I am meeting up with my dear friend, I’ll call her Sarah. In honor of our friendship, here is a short story from over 25 years ago!
Potty Parity
Friday evening. Frazzled from a hard work week, I was second-guessing my decision to go to an outdoor Bonnie Raitt concert, even if it was with my zany, magnificent friend, Sarah Lee. Yes, Sarah Lee. And ‘nobody doesn’t like her,’ either.
I think the heels of my cowboy boots wore off on the two-mile trek from our parking space to Nashville’s Starwood Amphitheatre entrance. I reconsidered my divorce from Manuel for the first time in years.
“At least when I was married, we got V.I.P. parking,” I whined.
“I didn’t see that on the ‘pro’ column on of your list of reasons to stay married,” Sarah teased.
“Ouch.”
I was scurrying, trying to keep up with my tall friends.
I’m paying a sitter for this?
“Hey, slow down,” I yelled ahead. “My boobs are blowin’ in the wind.”
They slowed their pace.
“Please, God,” I pleaded, “in my next life, I want to be Twiggy.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you,” Sarah moaned.
She was as notoriously flat-chested as I was stacked.
“Sarah, I know the grass is greener, but trust me, these glorious titties are a pain in the ass.”
Ironically, when we reached the entrance, Bubba security guard asked me to open my suede jacket to “search” for illegal substances.
“I rest my case!” I laughed over my shoulder, as Bubba’s eyes glazed over.
Still laughing, Sarah’s husband in tow, we found our seats—the last row. The amphitheater roof didn’t even extend that far. Rain was predicted.
Used to get V.I.P. seats, too.
And POTTY PARITY? Forget it! I didn’t dare buy that $3.50 paper cup of warm beer. I would have missed half the show, waiting in a mile-long line for a toilet, watching men go in and out of their bathroom without missing a guitar lick. Then again, I could hardly see the show from our seats, anyway. Warm beer was beginning to sound good.
When did I turn into such a spoilsport? Where did the days go of passing joints during a rock concert? 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 cigarette smoke. 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 used to be the first ones to join in the mud sliding during a rain-soaked concert. Now, we joined the sea of middle-aged humanity running for cover when the downpour eventually came.
WE HAD BECOME OUR MOTHERS!
In our defense, however, age had nothing to do with the near-death experience from someone repeatedly passing the “most foul” gas, “most foul, strange and unnatural.” (Hamlet 1.5. 27-28)
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. Apparently, my “endless summer” had ended.
On the endless hike back to the car—of course, we’d forgotten where we’d parked—
I vowed never to return: Bad seats, bad sound, bad gas!
But wait. There is a glimmer of hope, still a child within. The next day was my 40th birthday. On my way home from work, buying a fifth of Crown Royal, I was carded at the liquor store. Who cares if it was probably for the last time? I went home and drank whiskey with Tony. There we were, jumping on my daughter’s bed, sticking glow-in-the-dark stars & planets on her ceiling, while rocking to Bob Dylan’s 30th Anniversary album.
Hey, I’m not my mother—yet.
Do you have a “not my mother or father yet” story?
Leave yours in the comment box at the very bottom of this page!
I would love for you to be on my email list!. Many thanks, Susan.
