Middle-Age Tramp Stamp
At this point, inside my head, I decide to take stock of all the things I might bring, instead of an ID that will identify us as above the legal age limit for rocking.
Sitting on a stool below a 12-foot skeleton in front of a bar that goes all out for Halloween, a bouncer looks at me, nods, and says, “go ahead.”
I laugh, thrilled at the idea I won’t have to dig into my mini backpack for my ID and pull out the most embarrassing photo of me ever taken and claim myself in front of a stranger. I know everyone says their photo is awful, no good, a very bad photo, but I look like goblin Vigo the Carpathian inside the painting, about to get sprayed with the mood-altering Pepto Bismol in mine. All I need to do is slap my ID to the wall of the Halloween bar and other people will shudder like, yep, spooky.
But I never know anymore when I will need to take out my identification. I am short and people mistake it for youth. I’m also large in the middle and under the chin, which, again, means I’m mostly coded as younger—fat people rarely have wrinkles. I’d like to yell this truth at the people running through my neighborhood: “many cookies a day, keeps the crow’s feet away.” But they’d take me to an asylum and fill me full of salad. Without caesar dressing or croutons. It would be torture. Utter torture.
A few days later, here I am again, standing in front of another bouncer—a child, really. Does he remember the ‘90s, the slap bracelets and eyebrows the size of noodles or does he like the idea of that decade more because he was Tickle Me Elmo age? Regardless, he is standing at the front of the balcony entrance and I am not trying to see Violent Femmes from above eye-level.
“Are you ready?”, I say to my friend.
“I don’t have my ID,” she yells in my ear.
Bloody hell, this nightmare.
Without re-entry, we’d have to stand on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone else, that is…taller. Ronnie, my friend since middle school, doesn’t mind either way, but I know the tallest person in the place will find me, park their beanstalk trunk right in front of me, and I’ll be faced with hearing Violent Femmes add it up, but seeing the view of someone’s t-shirt the entire night.
I look over and see the child bouncer isn’t exactly checking IDs for the “old heads,” but letting them pass with a stamp on the inside of their right wrist after a brief question and answer session.
Bless this baby bouncer, “let’s go, Ronnie.”
We pull up to the front of the balcony steps, with me going first.
I think, because all I do is think of scenarios just like this, me going first will grease the wheels for a wrist stamp. If he doesn’t make with the stamp, I’ll just plow right through him and shake my thighs as the universal sign for I have stretch marks older than you and I will snuff your life out if I cannot see this folk-ish, punk-ish band from on high.
“Hi,” I say.
Polite enough, I think, very nonchalant. Definitely screams, old.
“You’re 21, right?”
At this point, inside my head, I decide to take stock of all the things Ronnie and I might bring, instead of an ID that will identify us as above the legal age limit for rocking.
Let me start with the obvious: we’re at a Violent Femmes show.
But, when I look around, it is a shockingly younger crowd then L7—who I’d seen a few weeks prior. There are many young people here with the audacity to not have foreheads going to 11.
Next, I’m wearing soft pants with an elastic waist. Only the old care about comfort outside of the house. Unless you’re at Chipotle or Wawa or whatever your bodega/corner store/convenience situation. Those cashiers know our secrets, and I hope they never tell on us about our crooked messy buns, Crocs with socks, uncoordinated sweats with matching stains at the tits.
I have a side part.
Sure, it may look like I’m wearing Doc Martens, but the zipper on the side for easy foot entry screams knock-off, and I am okay with that.
I have actual thoughts about the current cost of heating oil, and I will share them.
Wait, lemme just pull out this Bath and Body Works mini hand lotion.
Do I have any tattoos? So happy you asked, Baby Bouncer, feast your eyes on this middle-age tramp stamp. Yes, it’s a butterfly.
Have you ever heard of the color mauve? No? Let me describe it to you.
Ronnie, yeah, she’s behind me, will need to use the camera on her phone and plans to zoom in so she can see the stage that’s right in front of her.
It’s a shame I didn’t bring the laptop I used in college, it’s the size of a boulder and weighs just as much.
Do you know that Gwen Stefani is not just a girl? Oh! The blonde lady judge on The Voice? Married to a farmer? I have no idea who watches that show either.
How much time do you have? I’d like to tell you about the day the Earth stood still because “fire crotch.”
Danger? That’s my middle name. Check this out. I’m gonna call someone without texting them first.
I have to let my body warm up for 5-7 minutes before I move it, so please don’t ask me to get up quickly. Like, ever. Roll me down the steps in case of an emergency. Throw me over the railing for all I care.
I’d really like a ticket for the concert. Do you know where I can get a hard copy of that?
But all I end up saying to Baby Bouncer is, “yes, I am over 21.” And he stamps my hand. Ronnie, without her ID, walks up, says she was street legal twenty years ago, and he forks over the wrist ink.
That, I guess, is the fun part of being older at the punk-ish, folk-ish rock show—everything seems a bit easier. Except for the ear plug that keeps falling out, the intense heel pain walking back to the car, the “I’m just going to let that asshole pass” driving home, and I’m not sure yet, but I think my left eye is permanently set to “blurry” now.
CURRENTLY:
🦝 Reading: Furiously Happy
I’m a million years late reading Jenny Lawson’s second memoir, but better late than never. Always darkly funny, and accepting of all our broken parts, this comfort read just hits different now. I’m happy—no pun intended—I waited.
🎃 Watching: Halloween Ends (Peacock/theaters)
I have no skin in this game—I was there to morally support my husband’s horror addiction—but I do have thoughts: watch Chucky instead.
⚔️ Listening: Freddie Prince, Jr has a podcast about wrestling
And it’s good y’all. IF you watch wrestling. Which, please, let yourself be known. I know I can’t be the only one here who is all in for Drew McIntyre and his sword. That is not a euphemism.
💛 Wearing: This candy corn-inspired dress
I have a lot of upcoming Halloween-ish events, and I do not plan on wearing a costume for all but one. This dress, from Hot Topic, is too cute and fits the theme. Black and candy corn-colored? Sold. Also comes in straight sizes.
🥧 Saving: These pumpkin pie earrings from Etsy
If you’ve ever watched Bob’s Burgers, you know how much Bob loves Turkey day. I am the Bob Belcher of our family, so I’m starting to get pumped.
🌲 Supporting: Black Girl in Maine is going Patreon-only
Not only do I occasionally write for Black Girl in Maine (truly it’s an honor), I’ve long been a supporter of Shay and her contributors. But times are tough for small publishers and Shay is pulling back and going Patreon-only starting December 1st. Subscribe now.
If you like reading Flop Era, give that heart a tap. If you really, really like it, why not share it share it with someone who needs a good laugh.