Our Children Were Mortified

It sounded so cool, a concert and dinner without the kids in NYC. Once the tickets were purchased, we knew we would have to make all the necessary arrangements including selling it to the kids. On the morning of the concert, everything was set except for breaking the news to them, which seems to be getting more and more difficult as they get older.

During breakfast, we played a few songs by The Cult and Paul and I demonstrated our “coolness” by banging our heads and jumping around to show them how excited we were to see them in concert. Nothing underlines being uncool more then watching your kids look at you completely mortified. They simply slung their backpacks on their backs and asked if they could eat candy at Nana’s sleep over.

Once we got to Terminal 5, it felt like old times, except that we immediately scanned the room for chairs hoping that we could sit for a portion of the concert (pathetic, I know). The crowd was mostly men, some with beer guts and faded concert t-shirts, mid-forties women with faded blond hair, roots for days and a smattering of young music heads. I even saw a guy with his son, not much older than Maxwell (tacky, and maybe even illegal given that they were serving alcohol).

When Ian Astbury (the lead singer) came out, I didn’t even recognize him. In the late 80’s-early 90’s, Ian had a mane of long, straight black hair down to his butt and seemed tall, sinewy and larger than life. He now had curly hair, a Charles Manson beard and what looked like a beer gut himself. Through more than half the set, he either forgot the words or couldn’t be bothered to sing them. I nearly started crying.

It’s easy to forget the things you used to enjoy before you had kids. I don’t regret my big night out but it certainly made me feel my age, which wasn’t bad but I think I’ll forgo any more 80’s nostalgia for the time being.