This is 40: Rocking It Out or Rocking Chair?

“Whoa, I think it’s the lead singer from Whitesnake!” I say to my sister.  We watch as a skinny guy with long flowing blond hair hops up onto the stage and prepares for his band’s performance.  He is wearing skin-tight jeans, a black t-shirt and a white leather jacket. His band mates have followed suit but have opted for black leather jackets.  I’m not sure, but I also suspect the lead guitarist is Slash from Guns N Roses fame.  He has the long, black curly hair; but the top hat is missing.

I am at a local pub waiting to see my nephew perform with his new band.  But first, we get to hear two other bands playing an assortment of heavy metal and not so heavy rock.

The David Coverdale look-a-like starts into their first song, and I can’t help but wonder if they are any good.  Because I’m not sure what constitutes good rock and roll these days.  I ask my nephew and he gives me a funny look and a sarcastic reply.  I’m still not sure what to think, so I watch him watching the band.  He seems to enjoy them, so I sit back and try to do the same.  But man do I feel old tonight.  The music is difficult to appreciate and is so loud I am on sensory overload.  I find myself thinking of my cozy bed and a good book.  What has become of me?  I’m not that old.  Or is this what 40 looks like?  Twenty years ago going out at 10 p.m. would have been too early.  But now, I’m wishing for my over-sized fleece pajama pants and the tattered t-shirt that sometimes doubles as my paint shirt.

I’m tired but no one could fall asleep in this place.  It’s packed with an assortment of people who are almost more entertaining to watch than the band.  I notice as a young guy with layered, poker-straight red hair stands at the bar with a beer in one hand.  Actually, I would call his hair “feathered”.  Anybody who grew up in the 1970’s and 80’s knows what that looks like.  It was cool.  Thirty years ago.

My sister nudges me and tells me to keep watching.  Sure enough, every few minutes, he bows his head like he has found something really interesting on the floor to look at and then, without missing a beat, flips his long locks out of his eyes in a sweeping, super-model fashion.  I deduce that his other hand, hanging limply at his side, is too heavy to lift and move the hair out of his eyes. 

The ear piercings and tattoos are on full parade tonight, and I find myself staring at a tattoo of a snake entwined on a flower running up a woman’s beefy arm.  It disappears under her shirtsleeve, and I can’t help but wonder what the rest looks like.  Not that I want to find out.  She looks like she could hang a licking on me.

There is also enough old Levi denim, white socks and tennis shoes to fill a thrift store.  It looks like the 1990’s all over again.  And ironically, most of the people in here are much younger than I am.  Except for the old man and his wife, who sit at the bar and look as out of place as a football player in a tutu.

Eventually, my nephew’s band begins their set up and they start to play.  I’m impressed with my nephew’s creativity and guitar prowess.  His fingers fly over the strings.  In his hands, the instrument looks like it is an extension of him.  I’m proud of him.  It takes a lot of hard work and guts to get up on a stage and play in front of strangers. 

They finish their set and we wait around to give our compliments before leaving.  I look at my watch and realize it’s almost 1:30 IN THE MORNING.  I’m usually a few hours into my REM at this point.  How did I ever do this, almost every weekend, back in the day?  It’s been twenty years, and two kids later, but it’s still not hard to remember how.  And why.  I had nothing to lose, and a heck of a lot more time and energy on my hands.  And of course, it was a lot of fun.

Then it hits me:  I’m thinking like a senior citizen.  I’m not 80.  I can still enjoy a fun night out, just maybe not in this particular way.   As we drive home through the frozen morning, I wonder if my husband and I could learn to salsa.  The thought soon passes from my mind as exhaustion sets in and earlier thoughts of a warm bed take over.  There will be plenty of time for dancing.  After I get some sleep.