Rockin' Date Night

For Those About to Rock...Please Puke the Other Way

My husband and I love rock concerts. Heavy Metal, Hard Rock--we love music where the bass is so loud, it pumps your heart for you. Where mosh pits offer up more chipped teeth than an NHL hockey game, and the band will actually call you out if you happen to sit at any point during their face-melting onslaught.

Mike and I have attended rock concerts together for over two decades.  (Full list at the end of this blog.) Together, we've seen over 25 bands--some of them multiple times.

We have enough concert tees to make at one kick-*ss (and all black) tee-shirt quilt.

Recently, my husband bought us tickets to the 98 RockFest in Tampa, cleverly supporting my goal of injecting more fun into our date nights together. And because I want you to rock your  Happily  Ever After, I have compiled these concert rules from my years of attending rock concerts. You're welcome!

UNWRITTEN HARD ROCK CONCERT RULES:

1. Wardrobe: Wear black. Preferably a concert tee from the band to show you're a real fan. However, don't buy the tee-shirt there, and put it on over what you wore to the concert. Because then you look like you're trying too hard. And you're so not fooling anyone.

• Stripper clothing is a rock concert staple. Seemingly for every body type. I've seen fishnet stockings restrain massive amounts of cellulite--it's like beholding a wondrous concert night miracle.
• Only wimps wear ear protection. Part of the rock experience is partial deafness. If you don't have a few hours of tinnitus after the show, you didn't rock hard enough.
•  If you have a tattoo or piercing (besides your ears), it is expected that you will wear something that reveals that body part. Just to show how bad-*ss you are. 

2. Smart Phone Musts: Bring your cell so you can take your picture at the concert and immediately post it to Facebook. Before you go, upload the flashlight app,too. That way you'll  find your freaking keys when you drop them trying to get your phone out so you can update your Facebook status.

3. Head-Banging: I've never been a very good head-banger. Some people thrash their heads around and look cool doing it. Me...not so much. Do it in front of a trusted, sober friend before trying this at a concert.

4. Being Groped &/or Cat-Called is part of the experience. Apparently. Happens to me every damn concert. You'll just be winding through a crowd of people and bam! Someone grabs your *ss. I used to get really offended. But now that I'm over 40, I try and take it as a compliment. Oh, I still turn around and try and catch the offender, my ninja hands up. But now I keep in mind that the alternative--when nobody wants to grope you because  you're too old and gnarly--might be worse. 

And finally, the most important rule of them all...

Age doesn't matter on this one. At 98RockFest, a 60 year old in front of us had 12 too many brewskis. He'd already broken so many rules, I should have known he'd make this last infraction something of a finale. He wore a plain, dark blue tee-shirt that covered up most of his faded upper arm tat, and jeans so crisp, you could smell "Eau de WalMart" rows away.

Clear infraction of Rule #1.

He had no cell, and his head-banging looked more like he was slowly agreeing with a silent conversation. Which, considering his state of intoxication, was probably the case.

Rule 2 & 3--broken.

I gotta give the guy credit for Rule #4, as he was ardently groping his girlfriend (gaggingly his younger by a good 15 years). But I could've misconstrued his lascivious intent. He may have been searching for a hand-hold as he swayed on his geriatric feet, and her *ss provided ample leverage.

And Rule #5. He waited until Shinedown's ballad, "45" for that one, the old romantic! Lucky for the  SweetTart he was with, he gave her one last butt-squeeze, and then leaned over the seat in front of him. Shinedown was loud enough to drown out the retching as he yarked his guts out.

His girlfriend turned to us, grinned and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "It's a rock concert. Whaddya gonna do?"

Indeed.

The puke cascaded harmlessly down the two empty blue stadium seats in front of him--incidentally, the only two empty seats in that row. Another rock concert miracle! And the guy kept the most sacred of all rules:

5. For Those About to Rock...Please Puke the Other Way.

Rockin' my Happily Ever After,
Dylan

Want to see another amazing Date Night Idea? Click here for Date Night/Fight Night.

Curious to compare your rock concert attendance with my own? Click on the "more" below and check out previous date night concerts we've attended.

Date Night Challenge: Kickboxing

Fist Fight and Date Night: two phrases that aren't typically synonymous when my husband and I go out. Until now.

If you've read my goals for this year (click here for that post), then you know I'm ditching the normal 'dinner and a movie' date routine with my husband to give us opportunity to inject more Happily into our Ever After.

There's nothing like a good fist fight to take the normal out of a routine.

A year ago, I joined a kickboxing class to help me shed some of the "baby weight" (and as said 'baby' was almost four it was long overdue).

The class was tough. I puked in my mouth a few times.

But over the course of the year, I became adept at roundhouse kicks, jabs, and the like. I was particularly proud of my hook. I could hit the living hell out of the bag with it, and took perverse pleasure in the resounding smack when the bag connected with my pink-gloved fists of fury.

When my husband suggested we go to a night class together for a mini-date, I was all for it. I had an alterior motive.

See, Mike's better at sports than I am. He was the jock in school. I was the bookworm. His dribbling was with a basketball. Mine was after two drinks. But I'd had a full year of kickboxing classes. He'd had none. I was bound to be better for once. He'd get a taste of my hook. In a nice, loving-couple-working-out-together sort of way, of course. {**cue evil laughter**}

Surreptitiously, I watched him as the workout began. Although he's a heavy weights workout guy, he hung with the cardio, dropping to the floor, matching me push-up for push-up. While I struggled through my last few, he looked over at me with a boyish grin.

Grinning? There's no grinning in kickboxing!

I bared my teeth, focusing on the mats beneath my shaking arms where drips of sweat falling from my eyelashes and nose formed a blot-like Rorschach pattern. Focus pads were next. I couldn't wait.

Toweling off, Mike indicated I could punch first. Ever the gentleman. The timer dinged for the three-minute round. Oh, I so had him. My pink gloves flew in the jab-jab-cross-cross pattern and I reveled in the staccato "tip-tip-smack-SMACK" beat of my fists on Mike's focus pads.

He wasn't grinning any more.

The buzzer sounded, ending the round, and I switched my gloves for the focus mitts, confident I'd done well. His turn. I widened my stance, nodding my readiness. The buzzer rang. 

WHACK! 

The strength of his jab caught me off-guard, smacking the focus pad backward into my mouth. Before I could recover, the other jab was coming at me. Whack! The focus pad drove into my face again. I stumbled out of range of his cross, muttering a curse.

"I'm sorry, honey," Mike panted, dropping his gloves and looking contrite. "You okay? I won't hit as hard next time."

"I just wasn't ready," I growled through punch-numb lips. 

My eyes narrowed. My stance widened. It was on.

His three minute round felt like an eternity, my forearm muscles cramped from gripping the focus pads. He hit hard. My turn. I hit harder. His turn. He hit harder still. On my final round, I was swinging from my heels, determined to keep pace, ramping up my workout to an unprecedented level. Until, blessedly, the last buzzer sounded. Class was over.

Bent at the waist, forearms on knees, we both gasped for breath. Wiping sweat from my eyes, I conceded. "You kept up like a champ."

"Had to," he gasped back, "You're one tough lady."

We grinned at each other like loons.

"That," Mike tapped my shoulder with his boxing glove, "was the best date night. Ever."

And it was. We have another 'kickboxing date' tomorrow.

Goal #3 for my 2012 goals--check for this month! :)

Dylan