When my husband told me he could get us VIP passes to take the kids to see a rock concert in Central Park, I was all for it. Nevermind the fact that I had never heard of any of the bands that were playing or that when the kids played me some of the music on their Ipods, I thought my ears were going to fall off. All I could think of was how this coup would certainly get us nominated for Coolest Parents on the Block, so I said, “Heck, yeah!”
We arrived when the gates opened and just managed to get thru the entrance with our VIP passes seconds before the throngs of teenagers surged into the concert area.
It was like the Running of the Bulls, if the bulls were a bunch of gangly, charging teenagers.
While we stood in the food court trying to get the lay of the land, the throngs started to fill in in front of the stage. Suddenly, my kids realized they were wasting precious stage-staking time. They grabbed my arm, and dragged me into the fray.
Before I knew it, we were boxed in on all sides by a mass of raging hormones and
Teen 1: OMG, OMG, OMG! I think I just saw Pete Wentz!!”
Teen 2: No way!!
Teen 1: Way!!
Teen 3: What is he wearing? Wait. A. Minute! I think Selena is over there!
Teen 1: SHUT UP!!
Teen 2: Is Justin with her?
Teen 3: Forget it. It’s just a Selena Wannabe.
All of a sudden, the lights flashed on the stage and the crowd tightened and moved closer to the stage. I felt like I was caught in a human pair of Spanx that smelled like a combination of AXE body spray and pizza.
As bad as all this was, the combined body heat of all these kids had raised the air temperature by at least 15 degrees. The distinct scent of BO began to overpower the smell of the body spray.
Gasping for air, I decided that I did not want to spend my final moments on this earth stuck in a sea of smelly teenagers.
I tapped my son on the shoulder.
“I’m outta here,” I informed him.
I pushed my way out of the crowd and escaped the mass of bobbing, screaming teens just as the first band appeared on the stage.
While I took a minute to enjoy the space around me, two girls came charging out of the crowd behind me. They laughed, then one of them bent over and threw up on my shoe. With that piece of business taken care of, they went back into the crowd.
Shaking off my shoe in disgust, I looked around and saw a stand of bleachers in the back where a bunch of people were sitting.
“Is this reserved seating?” I asked a woman who looked suspiciously like someone from my generation.
“Yes,” she said. “It is reserved for parents with have to be here because their kids are too young to come to a concert alone but who have no desire to stand up by the stage and get their face blown off by the music.”
I nodded and sat down next to her.
We sat in silence for a minute. Then she craned her neck and peered into the crowd.
“Is that Selena?” she wondered.
“No,” I said. “It’s just a Selena Wannabe.”
“Oh,” she said. “Dang.”