You, me and all our friends

I consider myself a semi-respectable, hard-working, somewhat productive member of society. But for one night every summer, I like to let go of the reigns and raise my freak flag high, and that flag has a fire dancer for sure. For more years than I can count – minus a couple of misses due to things like labor and delivery – Hank and I, and a few of our favorite friends, have gathered in the great outdoors to eat, drink and be merry, and get just a touch stupid at the Dave Matthews Band concert.

Now, I realize that the king of happy feet isn’t everyone’s favorite flavor, and that’s actually neither here nor there. The important thing is, it feels damn good to stop being “Mom” and “Dad” for 8 hours and opt for jello shots, tone deaf singing and drunk dancing in lieu of diarrhea diapers and sisterly squabbles. It’s easier than I care to dwell on to lose yourself in the hamster wheel of roles and responsibilities. But standing in an open-air venue with thousands of your closest strangers, screaming lyrics that mean something different to everyone, but something to everyone all the same, always feels like rediscovering your younger self.

But being in touch with your younger self doesn’t mean you actually become your younger self; a realization that jolts me awake with an abrupt and heartless bitch slap more so year after year. Bruises and a bad back trump the temporary relief of a greasy entree and carbonated cola. Let’s run through some of the glaring discrepancies between the decades …

(Full disclosure: I already confessed to my chronic face sweating, so don’t adjust your screen. Grab your sunnies and prepare for the glare of a girl glistening in the best heat summer had to offer.)

Dave in our 20s
15 people sitting on laps in a small SUV.

Dave in our 30s
Good ole’ swagger wagon, baby.

Dave in our 20s
Peeing in a wide open field.

Dave in our 30s
Pumping in the third row seat.

Dave in our 20s
Funneling and forcing beers down my minor-aged throat right up to the gate.

Dave in our 30s
Bending over and taking the $27 tab for two beverages like the adults we are.

Dave in our 20s
Lawn with all the stinky campers.

Dave in our 30s
Pavilion with all the people who don’t even like the band.

Dave in our 20s
Rush to beat the parade to Taco Bell after conceding there won’t be a second encore.

Dave in our 30s
Rush to relieve the sitter so she can go downtown and meet her college friends.

Dave in our 20s
Hangover cure: Sausage and Egg McMuffins and a Diet Coke.

Dave in our 30s
Hangover cure: Black coffee and 48 hours of shakes, misery and merciless guilt.

Hope you get to catch a show (and a little piece of your youth) this season, guys!