Earlier this week, Melinda took Dominic to his first concert.
It was for some girl named Tate McRae, a singer who, according to Wikipedia, was born during my sophomore year of college.
“Are you sure you want to go?” I asked Dominic when he asked for tickets. “I’ve never heard of this chick, and I’ve pretty much got my finger on the music pulse.”
A quick trip to Spotify confirmed that Tate McRae is not only an actual artist, but her most popular song has over a billion plays.
And I had definitely not ever heard it.
Fuck! Is THIS why my mom gave me that weird, nervous chuckle when I told her back in 1995 that my favorite band was Green Day?
“Ok, well, it’s possible this particular artist may have slipped through the cracks,” I squeaked.
Nine months passed, and the fateful day came when it was time for Melinda to brave the 30 mile trek to the music venue in rush-hour traffic.
“How do I look?” she said as she slipped on her sneakers.
“Like a mom,” I said.
She frowned. “I don’t WANT to look like a mom. I want to fit in!”
“You’re going with a 14-year-old,” I said. “You’re either going to look like a mom or a predator. Which one would you prefer?”
Despite her exhaustion from the work day, Melinda and Dominic had a fantastic time. D knew the words to every song, and as a bonus, Melinda got carded at the bar when she ordered a beer.
They returned home with matching t-shirts and a shared experience they can hold onto for the rest of their lives.
Even if that experience made us both feel like we’re old as fuck.
I Don't Belong Here. 