Why I'm Not at the "Yelle" Concert Right Now

My boyfriend tries to take me to concerts with him almost every month, and I have declined his offers all but one time. It's not because I am some soulless robot who doesn't enjoy music or fun, I just don't like concerts. It's probably because the majority of my concert experiences have ended in pain and anguish.
(And when I say concert, I mean like going to see an actual band or person perform music. Not like an orchestra or a ballet or something. Those are always enjoyable if you can stay awake.)

The first concert that I ever went to was a sit-down Micheal Bubble concert in Philly, which was awesome. No hard feelings whatsoever.

The second was not nearly as enjoyable. It was at Festival Pier and it was the Soundtrack of Your Summer Tour. The bands that played were The Main, Boys Like Girls, Good Charlotte, and Metro Station. Naturally, it was full of screaming semi-emo girls and douche bags. I was initially excited for it because I was with my friends and we were girls and it was summer and blah blah blah teen angst. But as the concert dragged on, I realized how much I was going to regret this experience. During the first set, I had to change into a Piggly Wiggly tshirt because the sweater that I had worn got covered in orange soda. People thought it was funny to spend 6 dollars on beverages, take the caps off, and then throw them into the crowd. Idiots. By the time the sun set, they were starting to sell alcohol. (Which, in retrospect, confuses me. How many people who are of legal age to purchase alcohol would actually attend this concert? It is beyond me.) Anyway, Bud Lites were soon being thrown into the crowd as well, and there was a couple behind me smoking pot. By about 9pm, I was soaked in beer and orange soda and I smelled like a head shop, not to mention that my back was protesting in agonizing pain from standing pushed up against sweaty half-naked teenagers for so long. Finally, Good Charlotte came out. I say finally because they were supposed to be the second to last band to play and I was already ready to get out of there. Their music was so incredibly loud that I thought the sub woofers were going to give me heart arrhythmia. Of course, my more adventurous friend decided that she wanted to get closer, and inadvertently herded us into the center of a then-raging mosh pit full of kids with spikes on their necklaces, too many jelly bracelets, doc martins, and unnatural hair colors. I got punched in the back of the head several times, and was absolutely positive that I was going to die.

                                                                              Before

After

Eventually, the concert ended and I returned home to my father to face an interrogation on why I was covered in beer and soda and reeked of pot.

The third concert that I attended was actually more out of obligation than anything else. I had no real desire to go see the return of the Spice Girls concert, but I did end up going. (When you say "return of the Spice Girls" it sounds like a bad 50s horror movie.)

They're missing one...IT'S BECAUSE SHE'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU AAARRGGH!

Anyway, my step mom and step sisters were really into Spice, so my tickets were already bought for me before I could decline the offer. It was at the then Wachovia Center, and we had pretty bad seats. It's ironic that I say "seats" because I was not allowed to sit in mine for the duration of the concert, which I thought was a load of crap.

The last concert that I went to was with my boyfriend, which was actually kind of enjoyable. It was at the Plazza in Northern Liberties, and it was a free Matt & Kim concert. We went with a few of his friends and we met up with more once we were there. I had only experienced moshing once before, and so I was inadequately prepared this experience. Girls were crowd surfing, people were punching each other on purpose, and pushing around and sweating and yelling and tripping on acid. (Come on people, it's Matt & Kim. Really?) At one point, my boyfriend had to catch this one girl out of the air before she fell and broke herself. She looked at him like she had never wanted to bone anyone so bad in her life , and I had to be all "bitch, gtfo." (Not really though, because I probably would have gotten beat up and I am a wuss.) Anyway, I had to use my boyfriend and this other girl as human battering rams so that I wouldn't get totally destroyed by the giant men in front of me who thought it was the best thing ever to push people around and scream and punch at the air.
By the end of the concert, I was still intact and did enjoy myself a reasonable amount. We were meeting back up with the people we came with and were walking out of the venue when we realized that one of my boyfriend's friend's tshirts was dripping with blood.

US: OMG WHAT HAPPENED ARE YOU OK!?
HIM: What?
US: Dude, you're totally covered in blood.
HIM: Oh, man. That's not mine
US:...ew

All of these experiences coupled with the fact that I don't dance makes me truly dread going to concerts. Tonight, Yelle is playing at Union Transfer, and although I do enjoy her music, I made sure that I graciously declined my boyfriend's invitation so that I could stay here, safe in my warm albeit haunted apartment. And that's the story of how I became the biggest loser I know.

The Real Ugly Truth

My mother has always been kind of a free spirit. She does deep breathing exercises, practices Buddhism, and practically swears by herbal tea. This attitude of hers lead her to make, and accept some pretty “eclectic” friends. When I was younger, my mom would have these friends over at the house all the time, one in particular. Her name was Gene. She was this massive black woman with a booming voice, and—as I had heard years later—quite a temper. (My father told me that she was arrested once for assaulting the local judge’s daughter with dinner plates. Charming.) Anyway, she would visit often and always make a scene about how “grown up” I was, or how “aDOOOHrable” I looked in a certain dress, etc. It was becoming too much to handle. So one day when I had caught wind that Gene was coming over to visit—again—I made the decision to rebel.

As Gene’s car pulled into the driveway, I ran inside, looking around desperately for a place to hide. I came into the living room where we had a big old-fashioned organ against the wall. Aha! I dropped to the floor and began to crawl over the pedals, making sure not to hit any of them and reveal myself. Once I was more or less comfortably concealed behind the organ, I began to listen for my mother. After a few minutes, the front door opened and the excited voices of my mom and her friend came tumbling into the living room. A beat of silence.

“ALEX!” my mother called for me. “COME SAY HELLO TO MS. GENE!”

I stayed stone still. Her voice lingered in the air as they waited for my reply. Obviously, it never came. Then, the real search began. My mother was up in arms, screaming for me. It was apparent that she was scared stiff. Soon, my dad, mom, Gene, and my sister were all running around the house looking for the M.I.A five-year-old. I knew I should have felt guilty, but I was actually very pleased with myself. I ended up staying behind the organ for about an hour until someone, Gene actually, had found me. I was immediately yanked from my hiding spot and passed to my mother, who hauled ass with me up the stairs to my room. After we were behind closed doors, she let me have it. It was the most traumatic experience of my life up to that point. Always having been a good kid, I never knew what it was like to get chewed out by your irate and recently scared-to-death mother. It wasn’t fun, I’ll tell you that.After my stern talking-to, I was marched back downstairs to make a formal apology to Gene. I was even forced into kissing her on the cheek. The horror.

All in all, it was not a successful ending to the day. However, everything up to that point was exhilarating; empowering, if you will. So, naturally, I got right back out there and found an even better hiding spot. It wasn’t because I was some demon child, or because I enjoyed scaring my mother, or that I was stupid. It was because I enjoyed pushing the limit, and also probably because I have never been good at associating consequences with actions.  So even though my mom, free spirit that she was, had put the fear of God into me that day, it didn’t stop me from continuing to act out. This leads me to the moral of the story: you should always beat your kids, because yelling at them doesn’t do a goddamned thing.

My Thoughts On Exercise

When you’re too tired to carry on, your body aches with every step, and your heart breaks with every beat, and your lungs burn with every agonizing breath you draw. When you find yourself at the end of your rope, you take solace in the idea: this can’t go on forever, right? You question the possibilities of an end as you force your tired body to continue. When your mind begins to contemplate the what ifs?—what if this never ends?, what if I continue to suffer?, what about the pain?, what if it never stops?—a deeper and more primitive part of the brain turns them off and forces you to focus on survival. But as you continue dragging yourself over the burning coals, you realize that with every step, you are getting closer and closer to  some sort of end. You find new vigor in this insight, and you suddenly are more than happy to suffer because you know that it will all be over soon, and that rest will come. The feeling isn’t quite so cliché as a “light at the end of the tunnel”. No, it’s much more powerful than that. It’s more comforting and simple, like if you take one more bite of your asparagus, you get a brownie. Two brownies. A hundred brownies. A hundred weed brownies. A hundred of the best weed brownies you’ve ever had, and then you get to sleep and watch TV in a leather chair forever. Such power comes from this gruesome truth: it will all be over soon. But your mind doesn’t let you think about the morbidity of your current situation. All you know is that however hurt you are now, however much you have to suffer, however much each second you wish you could die, it doesn’t matter because the end is near, and from where you’re standing, that’s a beautiful thing.