The other night I went to see a band who shares the name of a certain salad made with marshmallows and crushed fruit. The band I shall not speak of aloud had several big hits in the 70s. I have never been a big fan of the fruit salad and cannot say I ever gave much thought to the band. Until the other night.
Brighton, who I have known forever, asked me to go to this concert with her. "Hahahaha!" I said. "No way."
But she was insistent. She knew as much about the band as I did, but it turns out their guitar player (who was maybe 7 when they were putting out their Big! Smash! Hits!) is an old friend of hers from high school. I remember him well. I remember thinking he was totally unworthy of Brighton.
Maybe it's because girls mature faster than boys. Maybe it's because no one was worthy of Brighton. Maybe it was because 15 year old boys are inherently dorky. For whatever reason, I did not forgive Guitar Man for daring to touch the hem of Brighton's garment. Perhaps I still haven't forgiven him.
Most recently, I have not forgiven him for wearing normal clothes to the gig. The last time I saw a 70s band it was the Village People and I was really hoping for something equally showy. Maybe some powder blue tuxes or gold lamé jump suits? I have also not forgiven him for being chatty and friendly and not at all the person I remembered. It is so disappointing to let go of life-long grievances.
Which is not to say I am rushing out to buy Crushed Fruit and Marshmallow Salad albums, although I knew more of the songs than I thought I would. And they still had the power to drive all the couples to make out. In public. It was a little horrifying, given the demographic.
Speaking of the demographic, the drummer from the opening act said something like "our bass player is very eligible, so if anyone out there has a daughter...."
I have never been so offended in all my life.