I have come to know something about myself. I am no fun at concerts. There was a time when I cared more about seeing a band I loved than the requisite level of bullshit that came along with going to a show. Those days are long gone.
I think it began with the year we went to Firefly (the local music festival in Delaware). Something about being more sober than the strangers around you, (in this case totally sober, because I was pregnant at the time), made me far, far, far less tolerant of my fellow man.
Concerts mean a loss of personal space, which I understand, but also can’t tolerate for very long. Concerts are a lot of standing, which hurts my feet and back after a while. Concerts also mean a lot of other people competing for the space you’re taking up, whether or not they actually need it. All of these things are particularly true when one acquires lawn seats for a Jimmy Buffett concert, which we did for my husband’s birthday last weekend.
We decided it might be fun to introduce our son to the experience, so we rolled the dice, packed a nice stadium blanket and gave it a go. Well, it turns out the level of intoxication at a concert like that is predictable and yet unbelievable. Among the acrid smoke from cigars, the pungent wafts of various strengths of weed, and the overpriced beer, these people turned from what I imagine are reasonable individuals sober into complete animals.
Taking a toddler was a bad move, although to his credit, he handled it like a champ. Some folks were really cool, and another family stayed near us with their four kids. But for me, I instantly hated it. I don’t know what I expected, maybe lawn chairs and people chilling, but what happened instead was drunks trampling that made me rage at every single person around me. This was not a good time for me, and I’m beginning to wonder if my ability to go to a show has waned so badly that I’m no longer cut out for it.