is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
I just got some. heyheyhey.
Thursday, October 12, 2006 Sassafrass is neither Honky Tonk Woman nor Brown Sugar. In fact, Sassafrass does not know more than ten words to each of these songs.
What this mama does know, however, is how to politely accept free tickets to a killer Rolling Stones show, even if it means standing on the field of an outdoor arena all bundled up in a winter coat, scarf and nubby warm hat. In October. The night before my wedding anniversary. On a total whim.
Yes. I did say the tickets were free. Dude. How did we score those sweet, sweet seats?
My wonderfully-talented husband has the crazy job of a fitness
specialist and personal trainer. Sounds glamorous, right? Not so much.
He gets up three times a week before 4 a.m. to open the wellness center
where he works and vies to spend holidays with his family rather than
watching lycra-clad old men slooooowwwwwly pedal an elliptical machine
to the heart-pounding Jim Lehrer Hour, With all his degrees and
certifications, he spends a good amount of time as what he calls a floor monkey,
wiping other people's sweat off of vinyl recumbent bike seats and
taking and re-taking and re-taking the blood pressure of ladies who oooh over him a lot more these years he's kept his post-ponytail hair in conservatively short.
All of this is the paperwork of the fitness industry, the grind of the
good stuff Bruce thrives on, like leading boot camp classes and guiding
cardiac bypass patients back to vital lives through exercise.
No matter how much good stuff there is, the grind can wear a man down. Trust me on this.
There are many blogs to be filled with many more rants on a certain
personal trainer's utter disdain for some suburban women's insistence
on wearing big panties under too-huggy running pants. Alas, I just have
to listen to this, and -- please God -- do not have to rely upon it for my own blog-fodder (for now). Back to the grind...
In the midst of all this floor monkeying, it is a wonderful, happy,
delightful perk of a personal trainer's job to occasionally be the
recipient of nice thank you cards at the end of a class session,
sausage and cheese baskets at the holidays, loaves of banana bread and
cupcakes to celebrate weight loss success, and $450 face-value
field-entry tickets to see the Stones that a client doesn't need/care
to use/have time to enjoy that particular night.
Last night was our particular night, and with the offer to skip out on a night of eating leftover spaghetti while watching Lost to
see a legendary band, we squealed, suited up in winter digs, shoved our
child at a babysitting friend and celebrated a pre-anniversary night
out on the fucking freezing town.
It was incredible. One more time: In.cred.ible.
Mind you, we would never. ever. ever drop a grand on concert tickets,
nor would we ever entertain the idea of going to see the Stones.
Especially outside in Chicago in October. It is just asking for
frostbite. But somehow when some relative stranger/high-powered
attorney offers you the chance, it feels like your life's dream has
been fulfilled.
Again, just for the books: It was incredible.
It was all high energy and fireworks and intensity. It was crazy,
Harley dude fans with all the blahhhh-tongue parephenalia snapping
camera phone pics next to Keith Richards dress-alike looky loos next to
the Gen Y yuppies and their clients and wives with Louis Vitton bags
and fur coats holding up Miller Lites in a fan-wide toast to the boys.
It was a study in the many variations of marijuana smells from all directions that reminded us of ...Good Lord,
parties with restaurant people we worked with in Oregon a lifetime ago.
It was study in how to be fabulous when you are old as hell and a case
for why you are never too skinny, cigarette-laden or cold to rock a
trench coat covered in rhinestones, a matching velvet fodora, turquoise
UGG boots and coordinating pashmina. It was a reminder that no matter
how many marriages or kids a guy's had, he can still queen it out with
the best of them.
Best of all, it was a night out on the town dancing, screaming, cuddling and laughing bitter-cold asses off with my groom.
Since becoming parents, we've all but forgotten that spontaneous does
not mean leaving the house with the small diaper bag rather than the
suitcase-sized one, and that no plan can be freeing rather than
frantic. We needed to remember that we have it in us to rock harder
than is required by throwing up horns while watching Supernova.
Although I could not convince Bruce that the appropriate 4-year
anniversary gift is poly-cotton blend, hopefully in the form of a $50
tour tee (for him, not me), we did promise to put that cash toward
martinis at a new spot in town this Saturday night.
We agreed that we'd continue celebrating our anniversary through the
weekend, maybe with less contact high and under-layers, but rocking out
nonetheless.
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