Last Friday Thomas and I went to a concert. There was an opening act and two headliners (Maroon 5 and Train), so we were warned in advance it would be pretty long. I brought my breastpump because we were going to be out of the house too long to be comfortable without it (and because it’s SUPER COOL to tote an electric breastpump around at a concert. Or anywhere, really.) I planned to pump in a bathroom stall using the battery attachment, but after arriving remembered I hadn’t replaced the batteries after they died the week before (a realization that was accompanied by a *$#&@**%&%$# ). I ended up setting up shop beside the only outlet in one of the women’s restrooms (a female custodian who was in the first restroom I tried actually advised me as to which one might be best to pump in, which was very helpful). So I stood in the bathroom, pumping under the nursing cover I’d thankfully stuffed in the bag just in case, right next to the line AND the only working hand dryer. I overheard a lot of interesting conversations.
A woman with a group of friends suddenly said “OMG!” and pointed at her pants, which were rapidly becoming wet. “I pissed my pants! DON’T TELL GREG, he’ll kill me!” It seems Greg had advised her she might have gone a little overboard with the beer. She went on and on until the entire restroom (and probably most of the hall) was well aware of the situation. I hope Greg wasn’t waiting outside. Though, unless he was as drunk as she was, I’m betting he figured it out.
Another group of group of friends whose sense of boundaries had long since been drunk away came up to me and told me how awesome they thought it was I wasn’t tying up a bathroom stall to pump because they had to go “really, really bad.” One asked if I was pumping and dumping and when I said no, just pumping, she said (well, slurred) “You ROCK.”
One woman, who was also falling-down-drunk, and the lady behind her in line started making small talk, I think. They didn’t seem to know each other. I’m not sure how the conversation came around to this but the next thing I heard her say was “My husband cheated on me with a meth whore.” “A what?” “A METHAMPHETAMINE WHORE. So I figured I deserved this concert.” Um…OK.
This concert was obviously a people watcher’s DREAM.
Maroon 5 wore all white, which they apparently do every Friday. They called it “Friday Night Whites.” While I was gone, my husband talked to the people in the surrounding seats and one woman mentioned she was there because she wanted to see Adam Levine. He asked her if he’d lived up to her expectations and she said “Well, I prefer him in black, but he was pretty good.”
Oh, and while Train sang “Marry Me,” the lead singer walked around the crowd, then stopped in front of a couple and handed the guy the microphone so he could propose to his girlfriend. It had been arranged in advance – he said “my buddy so-and-so has something to say” – and was way cool.