It’s been a long week, and you’re so tired you unknowingly wore your underwear and both of your socks inside out to work today. Plus, you’re not really all the way out of the woods from Wednesday’s sick day. There’s a babysitter to find. And tonight is one of only two nights you don’t have rehearsal or a show for the next eight days. Sure, it’s your all-time favorite band. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t faking your enthusiasm about forsaking your pajamas and a nice night on the couch for a concert all the way downtown. Cold, drizzly downtown.
Plus, how often do you and L get to go out? Like really go out? Like out out? Like to a place where people go out out? Pretty much zero times a month, is how often.
So of course, you go. And you don’t even have to hear half of the first song of the opening act (whom you’ve never laid ears on) before you start to think that maybe you weren’t so crazy to buy these tickets after all.
And then The Band comes out and you realize you’re dancing involuntarily on the pulsing wooden floor of the concert hall, belting lyrics of your favorite songs into the ears of strangers and yelling things like WOO HOO! and YEAAAAAHHH! at the stage until your throat is hoarse and your feet ache from too much jumping up and down in hard leather cowboy boots.
Then comes the best moment, the moment where they all look at each other at that one point in a song, right before they launch into the best part, the fast part, the loud part. That one second where they pull out of their jamming reveries and throw a glance over to the others with eyes lit up and smiling and there is the briefest of pauses in the sound and you all know, all of you in the room, everyone listening, that something really great is about to happen. And it does.
And you think, Yes. This was a Very Good Idea, indeed.
Because it totally was.