We of middle age tend to spend an awful lot of our time caught in the middle of a war between the stuff our mind tells us that we're still youthful enough to do and the stuff our, ahem, changing body and temperament tell us we're crazy to even think about attempting.
Said war, I'm convinced, is what has sparked more than a few "Hold my beer and watch this!" episodes that may not necessarily have ended happily. The big reality check, however, comes with wanting to experience things that, at least on their surface, seem a lot more tame than some stupid prank.
These "tame" pursuits usually involve venturing out in crowded places to enjoy things that our bodies try their best to convince us are best enjoyed in the comfort of one's home recliner, remote in hand.
Take concerts, for instance. There's nothing like the jubilation of experiencing a live performance by a favorite artist ... a jubilation that lasts maybe five minutes before it becomes mixed with physical discomfort and mental crankiness, sources of which include:
• The seats. The danged things just seem to be getting smaller with every visit, even during those times you aren't picking up weight. No matter how you shift, these seats feel like iron-maiden torture devices. Your greatest joy -- along with things like the good stuff on the History Channel and tall toilets -- is sitting in a concert beside seats that remain empty. That means you can actually spread your body and your belongings out a little instead of clutching them around you like a dowager countess at a mixed martial-arts tournament. Scoring an arm rest that isn't monopolized by your spouse on one side and a stranger on the other is a thing of pure joy.
• The off-the-decibel-chart sounds. You're not sure what will make you go deaf first: the incessant screaming of the crowd or the make-sure-Beethoven-and-Helen-Keller-can-hear-the-performers sound system. Or the loud booms to go along with their pyrotechnics displays. Um, are they about to burn down the place?
• The fact that you don't get to just sit, especially if you're on or near the end of a row. This is usually because:
The same couple of people have to get up to go to the restroom, get beer, get food, buy souvenirs, or go hang out with friends they didn't get to sit by. They apologize each time they ask you to let them out and back in, and you smile and say "Certainly," but after about five apology-laden round trips, your knees are not smiling. When these wanderers reappear with food or drink, you pray they don't spill it on you. And you start to secretly wish you had the nerve to make them pay a toll.
When the performer emerges, everyone hops to their feet to get a better look and/or dance. You would rather stay seated. But you know that if you do, you'll be gazing at someone's head or rear end rather than the the already-too-far-away performer at whom you're squinting through your progressive bifocals or contacts worn "monovision" style. Again, your knees are not happy.
Of your own need to get up and run to the restroom, which is usually why you get a seat at the end of the row in the first place. Bottom line: You'd rather be crawled over by others than have to crawl over others.
• The end-of-concert stampede, which brings its own internal struggle. Part of you wants to stay and hear the very last note sung, especially as there's always the chance of an encore. Part of you feels the urgency to get the heck up, run (or limp ... those knees, mind you) up/down the stairs and scurry out of the building so that you'll beat the stampede out of the place, then hop in your car and burn rubber out of the parking lot to avoid being stuck in the mother of all traffic jams.
• The concert food and drink you may have given in to the temptation to enjoy, little of which is good for you and much of which may cause your stomach to be just as angry at you as your knees are.
• And let's not forget the cost of your ticket, which these days can amount to a house or car payment. You wonder if that "insurance" you bought to skip a payment in case of emergency covers seeing Charlie Wilson, Katy Perry or Billy Joel.
So you promise yourself that even if all the deceased Beatles were to come back to life, you'll just stick to watching YouTube concert clips. Or those texted or posted on social-media by those with more stamina.
Until you hear about that doggone Beatles tribute concert.
Sorry, knees.
One day only! Email:
Style on 10/29/2017