I'm certainly not a theological expert (and since when, in the current landscape, does not knowing anything about something mean you can't vigorously express an opinion about it?), but I have come to this conclusion: Hell isn't a place. It's a line on the way to a place. And you have to stand in it. Forever.
I came to this conclusion while in line before the Dave Matthews Band concert the other day. OK, back up. I'm a huge Dave Matthews Band fan. I know all the lyrics to his songs, even the ones he makes up, spur of the moment (which happens a lot more than you'd think).
So, standing in line to get into a DMB concert isn't even slightly related to lining up to get into, well, you know. And Dave definitely isn't, yeah ... him.
However, the "act" of standing in line (if you can call standing in one place, shifting your weight from one foot to the other for what seems like three weeks an "act") seems to me, a person with a tiny little attention span and the general emotional maturity of a hyperactive 9-year-old, to be about as close to a trip to a fiery depths as possible without actually going.
And if it's tough on me, a person capable, eventually, of amusing himself by trying to guess which U.S. presidents the clouds floating by most closely resemble ("Rutherford B. Hayes. That one's got to be Rutherford B. Haye."), you can imagine how difficult it is on the Lovely Mrs. Smith.
For one thing, she has to put up with me. It's important here to interject that I have raised four children, while my wife has raised five. Most of the time she can escape my off-the-wall comments and observations by smiling sweetly and continuing to read her iPad. Or her phone. Or the ingredients list on any handy container. Anything, really.
But trap her in a car or a line, and musings about exactly what they ship Styrofoam in or how they came up with alphabetical order tend to, after just a little bit, be met with an ever-so-slight twitch in her left eye. And, I'm sure, musing of her own about exactly how long you'd have to hold a pillow over someone who is sleeping before they'd never wonder about Styrofoam transportation again.
And she never sees just how much that cloud looks like Rutherford B. Hayes ("See, right there, the walrus mustache? And the really low part on the left side?").
For another, while we haven't entered Amish country, we've had what can conservatively be called a lot of kids. Which means she's been waiting in lines for a long, long time. Lines to sign up for things. Lines at doctor's offices. Lines to get into field houses, football fields, baseball stadiums and dance competitions. Bus lines. School drop-off lines. School pickup lines. And when she hasn't been standing in those lines, she's been volunteering to usher people through them. Which is a nice way of saying she's been there to keep them in line.
She's also possessed of the mom gene. That's the gene most mothers have that dictates they be ever watchful to make sure their broods, and, basically everyone else within sight lines, isn't running with scissors, climbing to dangerous heights, playing in the street or not following the prescribed rules of the playground. And that includes lining up correctly.
Which explains why, while I'm observing cloud formats, she's pointing out groups of people she's pretty sure are going to be cutting in line. Which, in Mom World, is a capital offense.
She's also on to the various tricks of line cutting, like the "I'm just going to wander around here, acting confused about where this line starts and the entire concept of lines in general until the line starts moving and then act like I've suddenly come to and just kind of wander in," technique or the famous "let's find someone we barely know or went to elementary school with and start having a longer conversation with them than we've ever had in our lives or will ever have again until the line starts moving and then slide on in" dodge.
I mean, come on now. She's worked the book line for four high schoolers. You're going to have to come with something a little stronger than that.
At the end of the day, the line did move and we did get in to see the predictably wonderful concert, only slightly worse for wear. However, we have determined that our days of standing line for festival seating may be over. From now on I'll do the smart thing and get reserved seating, months ahead. At least that's my plan.
Of course, you know what they say. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. And there's a line.
Commentary on 05/29/2015