I blame gum.
Most of the time my unnatural need to act anything other than my age is pretty ok with everyone that matters in my life. Well, either it's ok or they smile pretty and pretend it's ok for fear I will forego taking my hormones and eat their livers with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Really, the only person I am hurting is myself. And of course all the bleach blonde lab rats that make their living by testing my hair color. God bless 'em every one.
There is an awesome song out now, an anthem really, for Peter Pannish women like me all over the country. It's called, "1985" and it's sung by a group of baby-doll cute boys that are young enough to be my younger brothers called Bowling for Soup. When my evil red-headed and equally childish friend Berta Lou and I heard they were coming to our little part of the country here in Corn Capital, USA, she quickly purchased tickets for us and we made plans to attend.
Let me say this about that. When I say they were coming here, I'm sure you are picturing a big ole honking auditorium with numbered seats and indoor plumbing. You're pretty close.
Bowling for Soup was the headline act for an annual event here in CC, USA known as Wadestock. In a nutshell, Wadestock is an event that some local guys created seven years ago which seeks to bring bands who apparently have agents with severe drinking and drug problems to a giant field in Kansas in the hottest part of the summer. You buy your ticket, load up your cooler, grab your lawn chair and you get to sit in the country and hear some really great music. The stage is basically a wooden platform with a tin roof and a back wall on which someone has spray painted "Wadestock".
It's way cool.
I have to admit I was sort of nervous before I went. This was my first year at Wadestock and as I tend to have tiny freak out seizures when I am in a crowd, I felt there was a pretty good chance I'd wind up rolling on the ground with my tongue hanging out. To tell you the honest truth, I also had some concern that the place would be packed with Gen X'ers that had only recently fully completed puberty.
A good rule of thumb is this: It's ok to be forty-one and act like a twenty-something, but only when you are not standing in close proximity to an honest to God twenty-something. Otherwise you stop looking like a cute older lady and just start to look like an old lady. That's never a good thing.
Once Berta and I were all settled in our lawn chairs at Wadestock and listening to Monkey Bullet, 10 Sugar Charlie and Agathy, I was positioned in such a way that allowed me to check out everyone walking through the gate. Sure, there were a ton of really cute girls with really perky boobies that made me want to eat glass. Tiny shirts, short skirts and waists about the size of my wrist were as far as the eye could see. But just as I was about to call the local nursing home and ask about their walk-in rates, I got a good look at some of the other concert goers.
For example, there was a woman wearing a tube top upon which was scrawled a word or phrase of some sort, but given the lack of elasticity in her mammary area, I would have had to lie down beneath her to read it. I opted not to do that.
Behind her and to my left was a chick who had on a halter top and shorts. Sounds cute, but in fact, I cannot in good conscience use that adjective here. From the waist up, she might have been ok to roam the public in her short shirt. But when the eyes traveled below the waist line, terrible things happened. Her shorts were roughly a size three while her actual behind was at least a size fourteen. If you are a math genius, you know that the difference between the two numbers had to go somewhere. Every time I looked at her, I had an inexplicable desire to deep fry some meat and/or have my car checked for hail damage.
That's not right.
Also present were an inordinate number of blubbery-bellied men wearing t-shirts that proclaimed their love of cold beer and fishing naked. I always love to see that. It's especially sexy when they complete the ensemble with brown socks and sandals. I'm not at all sure what kept me in my chair and prevented me from forcibly flinging every last one of them to the ground and having sexual relations with them. Had Berta Lou not been there, I'm quite sure I would have.
And speaking of the evil Berta Lou, I don't think I would be lying if I said that she had a snoot full. In fact, she may have had two snoots full. I first became aware she was sobriety-challenged when she said to me most sincerely, "We need to go in the mosh pit", and then told me I should definitely take my shirt off and dance. These are things that one does not typically hear from Berta Lou. Truthfully I can't remember that last time she and I went out to dinner during which she suggested the night would be oh so much more fun if I would strip to the waist and dance.
"You are liquored," I said to her as we waited for our ride.
"I am not!" she proclaimed with the authority only a completely drunk person has. "If I were drunk, could I do this?" at which point she balanced her glass on top of her head and attempted to walk across the busy road while she touched her fingers to her nose and yelled, "Look at me! I'm touching my toes with my nose!" As the designated responsible friend, naturally I looked out for her safety and lovingly instructed her to get her drunk behind out of the road before she became Wadestock road kill.
You'll be happy to know I had a great time and didn't have a single total freak out moment, despite the fact that I had to use a porta-potty and once walked in on a friendly drunk guy peeing who waved at me like he was a homecoming queen in a parade. The bands were great, there were very few alcohol induced brawls and I got to see some friends I don't get to see often enough.
So the next time you're sitting around thinking, "Gee, I'd love to sit in a field in Kansas with about 900 of my closest, drunken friends and listen to live music", I highly recommend Wadestock. Maybe I'll see you there next year. I'll be the topless old lady in the mini-skirt sitting on the shoulders of a fat guy with no teeth and a t-shirt that says, "Master Bait & Liquor".
Yuck, I say.
Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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