One of my high school friends had a huge crush on Adam Ant. She would shake when she talked about him.
I know. It was kind of unfathomable even then.
Another was obsessed with Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran. She had a giant poster of him – in all his mascara’d glory – hanging over the head of her bed. She would stare at it while playing “Hungry Like a Wolf.” This was a sensory feast only a few could appreciate.
I, typically, was pathetic. I watched A Hard Day’s Night one afternoon and opted for a retro crush on Paul McCartney. But retro doesn’t work when the person is aging rapidly in real life and deep in his “Ebony and Ivory” stage.
Ick. It didn’t last.
I’ve been recalling these girlish emotions lately because my daughter is going through a similar phase.
The week before Thanksgiving, she came racing into the kitchen. Alex Gaskarth of All Time Low was going to be performing a free acoustic set at a “space” on the Lower East Side. We were going to New York that same day. It happened to be her birthday. Oh. My. God.
I had one caveat: I’d have to go with her. I mean, a concert on the Lower East Side by herself? I don’t think so.
And that is how I came to find myself standing in the rain on a sidewalk on Clinton Street for two hours the day before Thanksgiving, my only company my daughter and forty teenage girls. And one dad, from Mineola.
According to our fellow fans — whose braces only just outshone their piercings – that even if we had tickets (we did), we had to stand on line or there was a chance we wouldn’t get in.
That would be an unspeakable tragedy, and so we stood. And stood.
My daughter started to read Alex’s twitter feed aloud.
“There’s a lot of traffic!” “He hopes the rain ends!” “He’s almost here!”
Like Parisians tracking the return of Napoleon from Elba, our line mates were riveted by every update, becoming more obsequious the closer he got.
Suddenly three young men, coming from the back of the line, walked briskly by.
My daughter looked up immediately and breathed, “That’s. ALEX.”
Reader, I lost it.
“OMIGOD THAT WAS ALEX!” I shrieked.
Time stood still.
I think I had some sort of Stockholm syndrome. Or maybe my inner teenager needed one last chance to squeal.
Luckily, my daughter was so thrilled she forgot to be mortified.
As for Alex, well, let’s just say he quickened his pace.
Considerably.
I like to think he was concerned about a fangirl riot rather than escaping from the unstable middle-aged woman in line, but I can’t say for sure.
He needn’t have worried. I ducked my head and tried to dissolve into the pavement. The girls on line gasped, squealed, hugged each other, and stayed put. Because really, in the end, it’s not about him.
When the doors finally opened, I let my daughter go in with one of our new friends from Mineola. I hung out in the coffee bar down the street — to my great relief, and, undoubtedly, to Alex’s.
It’s wonderful to be young, but sometimes, it’s even better to be old. You understand that crushes and embarrassing moments, while memorable, are fleeting.
An hour later, my daughter levitated in. I was pretty pleased, myself. It’s not every day you thrill your daughter, remember exactly what it feels like to be a teenager, and best of all, terrify a rock singer.
