So…went with the fam to see Lynard Skynard tonight, because they are The Artist Formerly Known As The Boy’s favorite band evah omg. They were at some Harley gathering. There were 30,000 of them.
I’m trying to put this delicately. In a way that doesn’t make me sound like a horrible snob, because while I am kind of a snob, I swear to God that’s not what I mean here. These people make more money than I ever will, even if I have to sell my Ph.D to make rent. No, it’s just that…they’re not really my people.
I’m fairly confident that out of the crown of thirty thousand, I was the only one wearing a Josh Groban sweatshirt, listening to Mozart, and reading about the Easter Rising.
So it was just kind of awkward because I got the feeling that each and every one of them (including the women) could WIPE THE FLOOR WITH ME.
I’m really bad at the being young thing, so I have no desire to go stand in a pulsing mob of my peers listening to a band I actually like and getting beer poured on my head. I have less desire to stand in a pulsing mob of baby boomers listening to somebody scream “The South shall rise again!” and getting beer poured on my head by someone my father’s age wearing a Confederate flag bandanna.
Guess which one happened?
And, oh, the second-hand smoke. And the saggy boobs. Lord, if I never see a boob that really should be supported but is instead shoved into a thin tank top that may or may not be lacking an actual BACK, I will be happy.
So when I marry that rich guy so that I don’t have to sell my Ph.D to make rent, I’d better make sure he’s not into motorcycles. Because there is no way I would do this for anyone other than my brother.