You damn kids with your baggy pants and your mosh pits

True confessions time: in my entire youth, I never attended a rock concert. Yes, I know. The only thing that could render me less cool at this point is if I were to tell you the sorts of things I was allowed to go to instead, but I think I've lost enough coolness points for one post, so suffice to say that the closest thing to a genuine rock concert I managed to attend as a sheltered youngster was a Richard Marx concert. Even then, there was assigned seating, and besides, Rich can sing a mean ballad, but he doesn't exactly inspire one to risk life and limb crowd surfing.

Needless to say, none of this prepared me for last Tuesday night, when my husband took me to see 311.

Now, my husband is a little more world weary and wise in the way of these things, so I trusted him completely when he wanted to get there two hours early to stand in line so we could be assured of a spot close to the stage. And, despite the fact that 311 is not, like, my favoritest band ever, I shared his joy when we found ourselves standing second row center. We did worry that there might be trouble from the groupie in front of us, who, being a large, balding guy who was at least our age and who managed to find profound meaning in 311's lyrics by which to instill his life with meaning was the antithesis of the image that the word "groupie" generally conjures up; and who, besides shamelessly and drunkenly groping every sweet young thang that made the mistake of trying to sidle up next to him in order to be closer to the band, got in our faces a few times to demand that we be more exuberant about the impending and, obviously, life-changing AWESOMENESS of being only moments away from having 311 on stage just a few feet in front of us. But as it turned out, once the show started, that guy was the least of our worries.

You guys, I've seen rock concerts on TV, and not just fictional ones. I've seen actual concert footage. I thought this clued me in pretty well on what to expect, and I thought I could handle it. I was so terribly wrong, on both counts.

The band came out. Groupie Guy was so excited I thought he might have an aneurysm, but his excitement was soon matched by the rest of the crowed, all 500 or so of whom tried to rush the stage at once, while simultaneously trying to force room in the middle of the crowd, which is where we were, to start a mosh pit. One second I'm standing there relaxed and happy, with a drink in one hand and my husband's arm in the other, "Whooo!"-ing and getting jazzed to enjoy some good music, and the next I'm literally swept off my feet, trying to pry strangers' elbows out of my ribs and create enough room to breathe and keep from losing my shoes and my husband and protect my face from getting burned on the end of the joint the guy next to me just lit up and my head from getting kicked by one of the damn kids getting passed around overhead, all at the same time, and oh, by the way, now I'm wearing my drink, and pretty much getting battered against my husband's crutches. I'm also having a full-on panic attack. I manage to look around to see if anybody is actually enjoying this, and the damn kids all around me are laughing and going with the flow and managing to have a perfectly good time, and I burst into tears and think I just might literally die if I don't get out of there.

Thankfully, this was about the same instant when my husband managed to grab me by the waist and shout for me to follow him, and he used his crutches to pretty much whack a path for us to get the hell out of there. We got to the side of the room, on the much more mellow edge of the crowd, and I couldn't stop crying, and he wanted to know if somebody groped me or assaulted me, and finally I was able to calm down and tell him that I was just freaking out and that I'd be okay. Miraculously, I managed not to lose either of my flip-flops in that mess. Less miraculously, he realized he'd lost his phone.

So now he was the one freaking out and I was the one trying to calm him down. We eventually settled on a plan to wait out the concert and then call his phone once everybody left and, assuming it didn't get picked up and taken, or crushed in all of the moshing, we could just follow the sound of the ring tone. We moved to the back of the room and managed to mellow out and enjoy the rest of the concert, which I must say, was pretty tight, and 311 sounds every bit as good live as they do on CD. Incidentally, our new vantage point turned out to be pretty good for people watching, and especially for watching people get bounced.

Finally, the concert ended. We hung back as most of the crowed filed, staggered, or, in a few cases, got dragged out, and finally the floor was clear enough to allow for the possibility of finding our phone. As I went to search, though, the bouncers made me leave. Husband told them about our lost phone, and they pretty much told him these things never get recovered. Either the phones get pulverized, or they get stolen. Husband was somewhere between angry and despondent over losing all of his pictures when I decided to try calling it one more time. This time, one of the bouncers answered it. Someone had picked it up and thrown it at his head during the concert, and he pocketed it. Another miracle! Kinda.

So that's my first big rock concert adventure, and, most likely, it's my last. I think the moral of this story is that we're just too old for this sort of thing. There might also be a moral in there somewhere about being sure to experience these things while you're still young enough to fully enjoy them, but really, I think teenage me still would have been too old and crotchety for this sort of thing. The other moral is, of course, never wear flip-flops in a mosh pit. And don't keep your phone in your front shirt pocket, because it surely won't stay there.

That's a lot of life lessons to pack into one evening. I'm exhausted now just recounting them. Now pull up your pants and get off my lawn.

Husbands and Mothers. 'Nuff said.

Can't say as I'm having the Best Day Evar. I'm all hormonal and irritable, and certain husbands still haven't learned that trying to have household discussions with their PMS-ing wives is right up there with whacking a beehive with a stick. It's just not a good idea. And said hormones are making it impossible for certain wives to let go of stupid arguments and stop replaying them over and over in their brains and coming up with snappier comebacks and added lists of "and furthermores" every time. Or just wanting to whack certain husbands with a stick.

Grumble.

As long as we're on the topic of "things you'd like to whack"...

I've lost count of how many times I've had some variation of the following conversation with my mother. It's not quite the daily occurrence that I'm about to make it out to be, but it's close. I'd worry that she's starting to get senile, but she's kind of always been this way.

DAY 1

Mom: I think when my Cingular account runs out I'm going to switch to that Vonage.

Me: Vonage isn't cellular, Mom. It's Internet phone.

Mom: Well, maybe I'll switch my land line to it, then.

Me: But I thought you hated Internet phone?

Mom: I do, but [pointing at kitchen phone] I can switch that phone to it, can't I?

Me: No, Mom. You'd have to hook it up to the computer.

Mom: Oh, no. I don't like that. Never mind.

DAY 2

Mom: I think I'm going to look into that Vonage for my cell phone after my contract is up.

Me: Um. Didn't we just...? I mean, Vonage isn't a cell phone company.

Mom: It's not?

Me: No. It's Internet phone.

Mom: Well, maybe the kitchen... oh. Well, never mind.

DAY 3

Mom: My Cingular contract is up soon. I'm considering going with that Vonage I keep seeing on TV.

Me: .... [squeezing bridge of nose] Vonage is Internet phone. You hate Internet phone.

Mom: Oh, that's right. I do.

DAY 4

Mom: You know that Vonage? I'm thinking--

Me: Vonage is not a cell phone company!

Mom: Oh, it's not? Well, maybe I'll switch my land line--

Me: It's an internet phone company! You have to set it up over the internet!

Mom: Oh. Okay. How much coffee did you drink?

DAY 5

Mom: I think when my cell phone contract runs out I'm going to get that Vonage.

Me: *WHACK!*

...Okay, not really. I officially neither participate in nor condone the perpetration of violence against one's mother, no matter how much she may resemble a broken record.

I'm Shot!

I don't like needles. I have generally been a big baby over this. When I was a kid, I usually had to be physically restrained for shots, to the point that the process of getting me to hold still was way more traumatic than the actual shot.

By the time I was seventeen and getting a shot of local anesthetic so that my hand could be sewn up after a particularly lucky car accident (in which the car was so badly totaled that it was lucky we survived at all, let alone that the only injury was a cut on my hand), I was mature enough to hold still on my own, but still fearful enough that I passed out on the table when the HI-LARIOUS comedian of an emergency room doctor, after I told him that I would be fine as long as I didn't see the needle, proceeded to hold up a SIX-INCH LONG needle before me and pretend that that was the one I was getting.

That was the last shot I received for a while. Soon after that I was old enough that nobody could make me get a shot, so I didn't. I got through my entire twenties without having any need for one. I had blood drawn now and then, but for some reason that never bothered me the way shots do. I eschewed flu shots whenever they were offered, claiming when pressured that I was afraid the shot's side effects would make me sicker than I would likely get otherwise. I took a lot of zinc and vitamin C and for the most part this has been somewhat true.

Cut to today. My company is giving out free flu shots, along with cheap B12 shots. I figure, I'm thirty-three now. I'm a big girl, one who has responsibilities and plans who can't afford to get sick. By now I've known and survived real pain. A measly little shot needle can't hurt me. Much. Besides, I bit the bullet and got that hepatitis A shot before the cruise, and that was fine. Plus I could really use the B12 energy boost. So I signed up.

I went down about an hour ago to line up for my shots. A nice woman I'd never seen around here before was before me in line, and she told me I was welcome to cut in front of her. Turns out she's scared of needles too. So we commiserated about our shared phobia while looking everywhere except at the people who were getting shots ahead of us, and the comedian behind us who kept hollering, "Look at the size of that thing!" Ha. Ha. Shut up, Wedge.

Finally, it was our turn. I had to fill out consent forms, and while I was doing so my phobia buddy got her shot and left, so I didn't see how it went for her. I was too focused on the little clause about potential side effects, namely the part about possible allergic reactions RESULTING IN DEATH.

….

Yeah.

But I braved ahead and went through with it. And you know what? It hurt. They both hurt. When I got my hep A shot? That stung a little, but it was no big. That nurse knew what she was doing, and I was still bracing for the prick when she was slapping on a band-aid and handing me my walking papers.

Not so with this shot lady. I felt the needle going in, I felt it sitting there inside my arm while she slowly pressed the plunger, and I felt it coming out again. Ow, ow, and OW!

Times two!

And yet, when it was over, I was proud of myself. Both my shoulders are sore, but only because I'm being an adult and taking charge of my health. Go team me. I feel fantastic.

But wait. What is this tingling in my fingers? Why does my entire flu shot arm ache? My B12 arm isn't doing any of that. Is this normal? I'm scared. Googling side effects gave me testimonials about symptoms ranging from arm pain lingering for days to severe back pain to TOTAL FRACKING PARALYSIS.

Well, son of a whore.

If it turns out that my old made up excuse for not getting a flu shot comes true, I'm going to… I don't know. Probably cry and whine ineffectually. But I can tell you what I won't be doing, and that's getting a not-completely-necessary shot of any kind ever again, ever.

You know, sometimes, fear is healthy. It's there to protect you and ensure your survival. It doesn't need to be overcome. I'm starting to think that this was one of those times.