I Just Really Miss Concerts
I don’t want to watch a live stream. I don’t want to go to a drive-in concert.
I miss texting my brother tour announcements. I miss saying, “We have to go.” I miss slipping out of work for five or 10 minutes at exactly 10 a.m. to buy tickets on my phone. I miss the antsy feeling all day long of something better waiting for me. I miss being packed in tight, uncomfortably close, shoulder-to-shoulder, the frizzy hair of the girl in front of me just barely avoiding my face or standing on my tiptoes, craning around the tall guy who’s ruining an otherwise perfect view of the band. I miss the roar when the lights go down and the first note plays. I miss the ebb and flow of the crowd as some people try to press forward for a better spot and others start a mosh pit. I do not miss that asshole insisting on crowd surfing, forcing me to spend my time trying to avoid getting kicked in the head while also trying to keep him aloft, but I appreciate his enthusiasm. I miss hearing the first note of that song I’ve been waiting for and turning to my brother or my husband or my friends, jaw dropped as if to say, “This is it.” I miss feeling the bass echo through my bones. I miss the overpriced beer flowing, but I do not miss it being spilled on me. I miss the scent of weed wafting over the lawn. I do not miss being covered in sweat, some of it not my own, and then again, I do. I miss screaming for an encore. I miss the house lights coming back up, the telltale sign that it’s over and the band is packing up. I miss the shuffle out, ears ringing, throat hoarse. I miss the ride home declaring that this was the best show we’ve ever been to. I miss peeling off my sweaty clothes, looking in the mirror to see just how good that waterproof makeup really is and alternating between being impressed it stayed put and disappointed that I didn’t go hard enough to destroy it. I miss flopping into bed and being hyperaware of the silence.
